


These Green Shadows

by the_glow_worm



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mirkwood, Slow Burn, Starts One-Sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_glow_worm/pseuds/the_glow_worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weighed down by unutterable grief, Tauriel struggles to make Mirkwood her home again--and discovers unlikely comfort in an Elven-King's regard for her. It's not love, she tells herself...but perhaps it was something close to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My goal with these beginning chapters is to handle Tauriel's grief with care and make the gradual affection between Tauriel and Thranduil seem plausible with respect to their relationship in canon. So I apologize if it seems slow re: romance...but I hope to make the slow burn worth it :)

They were deep in the shadow of the Mirkwood now, so far into the forest that even the sunlight dared not interrupt them. In time she came to the roots of a great oak tree, so ancient that she could not see the tops of its branches. The hollow between its roots was already empty, waiting. She slid the weight in her arms into the space. Kili looked so peaceful down there in the dark, his terrible wounds closed up with wildflowers. Here he would sleep and dream of a new life. Oak leaves would crown him. Acorns would be his hoard. The shadows covered him like cobwebs that could not be brushed away. She reached down into the shadows and lay down beside him, there to slip into darkness—

Tauriel came awake with a shuddering breath. It had only been a dream. She lay in bed gasping, trying to reassure herself. None of that had happened. She had not buried Kili, she had not—Kili was fine, he was—

There was an awful moment when Tauriel found herself grasping for a comforting reality and came up with empty hands. The dream had not been true. Kili’s kin had raised him a beautiful stone tomb beneath their lonely mountain. He wore magnificent armor chased in gold, and beneath a lock of her hair curled above his heart. The dream had not been true. But Kili was gone from her forever. 

Tauriel felt a moment of unreality set in. It was as if she had awoken in the foreign country, where Kili was dead and always would be. It was written in the sky by the gods. It was sung by every bird that flew. Not only Erebor, but every mountain would be his gravestone. It was the world Kili had left behind, and Tauriel would have to live through it.

The dream had not been true. Tauriel would not end her pain by joining her love in the darkness of death. She did not laugh, but the bitter irony tugged at her lips. She was only in pain because of her own desire to live despite Kili’s death. Wilting tragically away was an expected enough thing of high elf-ladies, but not for Tauriel, huntress of the Mirkwood. She would suffer and endure.

She had certainly endured the long march back home. The Mirkwood was not so far from the Lonely Mountain, but their pace was tied to that of the injured. Tauriel rode the entire way at Thranduil’s side, an order that she had not dared question. For all his kind words that terrible day when she knelt by Kili’s body, he had certainly not looked at or acknowledged her since, except to command her to ride at his right hand. She could not make sense of it.

“May I ask you a question, my lord?” she finally said, low. Thranduil tipped his head very, very slightly in her direction without quite looking at her. His elk, more expressive, rolled his eye and snorted. Tauriel decided to take that as permission. 

“Where is Legolas?” It was shocking to find him absent from her side, or more truthfully, to find herself absent from his. He was gone while her own self returned home? It made no sense.

Thranduil did not speak for a long time. Perhaps he found the question impertinent.

“He has gone north,” said the king. “I have decided that he shall serve your banishment in your place. Peace,” he raised a hand when she would have protested. “He has done this of his own will. And I will speak no more of it.”

Tauriel screwed her mouth shut, but her thoughts churned. Why would Legolas leave his homeland? He had crossed swords with the king of the Mirkwood not hours before. Perhaps this was some obscure punishment. Had he convinced his son, and her best friend, to leave willingly, and was instead allowing Tauriel to return in order to punish her in the comfort of home?

But when they finally reached their sprawling home in Mirkwood, nothing happened. The king had whisked away, the injured were taken to the healers, and there was nothing for Tauriel to do but to wander back to her room in the guard’s wing. It was cold and empty. Tauriel left it as soon as she had exchanged her bloodstained travel clothes for fresh. She stood outside her own door, trembling. She did not know where to go. She did not know where she was welcome. Her feet led her away, not entirely of her own volition, until she found herself standing before an empty jail cell. 

What had Kili felt in there? Separated from his friends, locked into a narrow box of iron, not knowing what would happen to him or his kin…how brave he must have been to smile at an enemy. How trusting and kind. Tauriel would never love another like him again.

“Tauriel,” said a soft voice. She whirled. It was the king—bereft of his battle armor, and wearing as simple a robe as she had ever seen on him. And he was down here in the dungeons, alone. Tauriel, gaping, forgot to bow. Thranduil did not seem to notice the discourtesy.

“You are hereby restored to your post, Captain,” he said to her. Tauriel found her voice.

“Yes, my lord,” she said hoarsely.

He hesitated, drawing away. “There is one thing more. I do not lightly break my promises. You would have been welcome to bury your dwarf in our forest, had his kin allowed it. I…regret giving you that hope, Tauriel.”

Tauriel stared. Was this an apology? “T-they were his kin,” she stammered out, “and had a better claim than I.”

The king continued to gaze at her steadily. “If you should like to contest that claim, you have my support.”

The walls were spinning around her. “No!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you think enough blood has been spilled? And I would not separate him from his homeland. Even in death.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, and his manner was suddenly less gentle. “I would not shed further elvish blood on the account of a dead dwarf,” he said. “I was offering to negotiate on your behalf, Captain. But as you do not wish so, I will gladly not.”

Tauriel had not slept since Kili had died. Her body ached with all the tears she had not yet shed, her best friend was gone from her. There was no room in her head for politics. All she could think of to say, to her affronted king, was—

“He wasn’t just a dwarf,” She sagged against the cell bars. “His name was Kili.”

Something about him softened then. “Kili,” he said, trying the name on his tongue. He nodded at her. “The hour is late, Tauriel. You would do well to return to your bed and sleep. Your duties return to you in the morning.” He was gone before Tauriel could force her slow brain to make a reply. She had staggered to her room and was asleep before she even hit the bed. Now she lay there, slowly waking. Like all elf-dwellings, the palace of Mirkwood combined shelter with an openness to the elements. Bluish pre-dawn light crept through her window, accompanied by birdsong. The sound of the forest was nearly a second language to her. She would have to lead the dawn patrol soon; it was comforting to fall back on old routine. She could pretend that she was the same elf she had been before and not some shadowy imitation of her, walking around with a hole in her chest, pretending to be alive.

She dressed mechanically and slipped out the door. As she paced toward where the dawn patrol usually met, Tauriel began to have doubts. She had been banished. Someone must have been promoted in her place, who would now be demoted by the whim of the king. And the rest of the guards—would they even want her back? She knew what she would have thought of someone who broke orders as flagrantly as she had. By now the entire woodland realm likely knew that she had nocked an arrow at Thranduil. That she and the king came to blows. That a beloved elf prince had left Mirkwood forever for her sake. And perhaps worst of all—that she had given her heart to a dwarf.

She went on. What else could she do?

When Tauriel emerged at the guards entrance, what she saw made her forget to be nervous, at least for her own sake. The royal elk was there, snorting and tossing his ferocious antlers. By its head, stroking its nose despite the flashing antlers, was the king. He reached up and removed the last of the elk’s harness. Tauriel took an involuntary step back, and on the other side of the great elk, she could see the gathered guards do the same. Thranduil seemed unconcerned even as the elk realized his freedom. It snorted and stamped like a horse, hesitant, and then seemed to decide. It gathered its muscles for a mighty leap that took him over the heads of the startled guards, crashing into the forest, and out of sight. But Tauriel knew that if ever Thranduil needed him, he would return. 

Thranduil shook his robes back from his hands, serene. His wintry gaze met Tauriel’s.

“Captain,” he said to her, and swept past. This time she managed to bow. Her heart pounded as she realized what he had done for her. Acknowledging her in front of her men implicitly put the will and power of the king behind her commands. Whatever mutinous resentment she could expect to find would have evaporated after his show of power.

By Thranduil’s standards, it had been remarkably unsubtle. And, she realized, remarkably…kind.

The thought dwelt in her mind as she led her men into the woods. Three levels of sight; ground, middle, treetop. Tauriel herself led the highest group, reveling in the sweet smell of the waking forest and the brightening sun on her face. This was where she had been happiest, and she had never missed it so much as when she thought she would never come home again. She ran so nimbly along tree branches that her squad was panting, keeping up. Yet something was off. Inside herself, she was changed. No longer could she lose herself in breathless speed. Some part of her was distant, tinging the sunlight with gray. Even now she was mourning. Yet this was also the most comforted she had been since the funeral. Had he known that? Was this simple pleasure a gift from the king? _Why?_ Thranduil hated her. The thought nagged at her as patrol ended.

Ground and Middle had nothing to report. Neither had she herself anything from the treetops. Tauriel frowned. That in itself was worrying. She liked to know of any suspicious activity inside her forest. Not seeing the enemy was a bad sign. Either they had withdrawn to plan something or—even worse—moving undetected through her territory.

“I don’t like this quiet,” she said to her assembled guards. “I want to get a closer look at the nests.”

One of them nodded. “Aye, Captain,” said Dolorian. “The woods were crawling with the damn things before the battle. Them being quiet is no good news.”

“I’m glad to hear your agreement,” said Tauriel. In truth, she was even more glad for the informal nature of their discussion. The Royal Guard had always been a loose group, tasked with the use of their own wit and courage for the protection of their homeland—spies and scouts rather than soldiers, although that also, when necessary. That her fellow guards were speaking their minds rather than sullenly taking her orders was a reason for hope.

Elanor, on the other hand, shook her golden head. “Thranduil-King forbade us to enter the spider nests,” she objected. “It is far too dangerous to engage with those beasts on their own territory.”

“It is not their territory,” said Tauriel, feeling her temper rise. “It is ours and we must defend it. As for orders—” She saw a few of the guards take on wary expressions. _That_ was wrong. Once they might have grinned and cheered to hear their captain blast royal orders, particularly when Legolas was more often than not in their company. But that had been before she had proven unexpectedly willing to put deed to word. They accepted that the King had, for reasons of his own, forgiven her trespasses. But that did not mean they wouldn’t be watching her closely. She swallowed the rest of her remark.

“There’ll be no violation of orders,” she told Elanor. “We’ll only be passing by. Our duty is to keep track of our enemy, after all. How can we do that without going near them? But if we do happened to be attacked by them—” her jaw set. “We show no mercy.”

On that, at least, no one dared defy her.

Although perhaps it wasn’t quite right that she took an incautious path to the spiders nests. Tauriel was more than half-hoping to be ambushed. She longed to hunt something evil. Even before…everything Tauriel had never shied away from facing the spiders. Their very presence here fouled the forest and everything within. Why should they not fight them? And she knew the spiders had an outpost just on the other side of the forest road, where they harassed travelers. That had been where she had met Kili, after all. What had were those first words they had spoken to each other? He had had the nerve to ask her for a weapon in the middle of battle! Tauriel struggled to keep the smile off her face. Brave, funny, honorable Kili, whom she had loved and was now…

She faltered in her steps and hoped that none of her guards had seen. She felt like a fool. Grief had been haunting her every footstep since she left Erebor. It had been in her dreams. Whyever did she think she was ready to resume her duties? But every part of her rejected the idea of keeping to her room, allowing her grief to overcome her. The memory of Kili would not make her weak. Now she only had to prove it.

Something caught her eye, drawing her out of grey thoughts. It was a small dimple in a tree root, the sort of thing no one but a Mirkwood elf would notice. An intruder beast never would. It was just the right size and depth to briefly trap a spider leg. Tauriel sank silently into a crouch to inspect it more closely. A single black hair was snagged in the bark.

Elanor came forward and looked at it a moment. They exchanged a wordless glance, and then she nodded assent at her. Tauriel stood.

“Spiders have passed through here,” she announced. The guards, assembled in a loose semicircle around her, exchanged uneasy glances. They were well north of the old forest road, in an area where spiders hadn’t been seen in many years. 

Elanor had drifted some distance away.

“There are more signs of their movement here, Captain,” she called. She trotted back into their midst. “Hundreds of them, heading north.”

“When?” Tauriel asked sharply.

“One night ago,” said Elanor. After the battle had been won then, thought Tauriel. Or lost, depending on the point of view.

“Take two trackers and keep following their trail,” Tauriel ordered. “We’ll join you after we’ve burned down their nest.” She turned back to the rest of the guards. There must have been something in her expression that told them how bad an idea it would be to defy her on this, because none of them dared.

It wasn’t even as if she was disobeying orders, thought Tauriel as she watched the webs shrivel and burn. After all, a nest without spiders could hardly be said to be a spider’s nest. The sight of it sent her veins singing with dark satisfaction.

The king didn’t seem convinced by the argument, when she repeated it to him later that night.

“Hmm,” he said, a polite sound that could mean anything. Tauriel had heard him make that sound right before ordering torture and executions. Thranduil poured more wine into his glass and then, to her surprise, poured a glass for her. 

“And what were your actions then, Captain?” he asked with excruciating politeness. They were alone in his throne room. Perhaps for this reason, he was not sitting on his throne, but rather pacing before it. The shadow of those enormous antlers fell over them both.

“We turned north to meet with our trackers,” said Tauriel. She fiddled with the wine cup before she set it down without sipping it. Taking wine from the king’s hand made her as uneasy as the thought of being drunk in front of him. “They had followed spider tracks into the foothills of the mountains.”

Actually, Tauriel had been impressed with Elanor. She had always been the stickler, but when Tauriel and the guards had caught up they had found her looking into the entrance of the Mirkwood Mountains in utter frustration. Tauriel knew how she felt.

Thranduil turned about in his pacing. His eye fell on the full glass of wine by her empty hand.

“And then you came here,” he said. His voice had turned sharp.

“We did, sire,” said Tauriel. She wondered what she had done to anger him this time. 

“You bring glad tidings then,” said Thranduil. He left off his pacing and climbed the dais to his throne. “The spiders are leaving their nest on the Old Forest Road. Have you not long complained of their presence there?”

This was too much for Tauriel to hold her tongue against. “They’re retreating strategically, sire!” she burst out. “The only reason is because we—” And dwarves, and men “—defeated their allies at Erebor. In time they and the orcs will recover, and we will regret not taking action while we could! We…” Her words choked off as Thranduil turned his gaze on her. His frostbite-blue eyes demanded her silence.

“Do not think you can dictate to me what I will or will not regret,” he said, very softly. Thranduil sat on his throne. “Your request is denied.”

Tauriel faced the floor. “I did not get to make it, my lord.”

“Oh? Was it one you have not made a hundred times before?”

“I would like to make it once more,” said Tauriel stubbornly. “As Captain of the Royal Guard, I have the right to formally petition the king when I think it needful—”

“Very well,” murmured the king. “I can tolerate foolishness too, as you know.”

Tauriel ignored the burning in her ears. “I ask the king to send troops to the spider nests, to burn their webs and force them into the open, and drive them out of our forest once and for all,” she said. 

“And what if I said yes?” asked the king. Tauriel’s head snapped up.

“Sire?”

“Would you lead them, Tauriel? You, having no experience in true war? It is nothing like the skirmishes you enjoy with the spiders. Will you go to the troops, who are injured and weary, who are grieving for their fallen comrades, and tell them to march towards death so soon again? Would you spend elven lives like a dwarf-lord spends coin and at the end of it, be rich only in blighted lands that we cannot possibly defend? Would you be the one to do all of that, Tauriel, Captain, or would it be me?”

Her teeth ground. He had only sought to mock her, after all. “Will that be all, my lord?” 

“Until you have an answer for me, Captain. You are dismissed."

Her feet returned her to her lonely room. After a moment Tauriel began to undress. She thought she would be shaking with anger—and the emotion was there somewhere, distantly shaking the bars of her soul—but mostly she was aware of a terrible blankness. An absence. Her thoughts were gray. If Tauriel had known how much more alive she would feel when she was arguing with the king, she would have treasured those moments more.

It was early yet. She could hear distant laughter and conversation. Perhaps some of her guards were playing at dice. She could join them easily, allow herself to make jokes, laugh at theirs…but Tauriel blew out her light and curled into her bed. A thought strayed through her mind and it ignited a spark of true happiness, the first she had felt in ages. Tauriel closed her eyes and prayed to dream of Kili.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't alarm anyone by mislabeling this fic as 1/1. That was, alas, a result of my own incompetence with Ao3. This work will actually be encompassing the length of the War of the Ring, so there will be sometimes significant time skips between chapters. For those who like to keep track of such things, the current year is TA 2942.

“I understand that multi-day patrols are not uncommon for the Guards,” said Thranduil, with a touch of impatience. “This is, however, the seventh such mission that you have personally delegated to lead in the past few months.”

“Yes sire,” said Tauriel meekly. “Do you have an objection, my lord?”

Thranduil regarded her with open displeasure. “Pretending to be well-behaved does not suit you,” he told her. “You are within your rights to assign missions as you see fit, as you well know. Now do get out of my sight.”

Even as she turned to leave, however, the king spoke again and forestalled her.

“One thing more,” said Thranduil. His eyes bored into her. “I know it to be impossible that a Captain of Mirkwood would allow some ill-conceived notions of revenge to drive her actions. But perhaps you might consider taking some care for your own life. Mirkwood needs you.” He seated himself on his throne and raised a glass to her.

Tauriel swallowed her first reply, and then her second and third, and merely bowed and left. Typical arrogance, she thought as she made her way outside to where her patrol was waiting. How dare he presume her motivations? The furious rush of adrenaline that always came with any interaction with the king had yet to die down, and so Tauriel tucked herself into a secluded corner and tried to calm herself.

It would be wonderful to be in the woods again, where she could keep her head clear, instead of cooped up in the palace with that cruel, arrogant—

Curse it. This wasn’t working. She flung herself outside, where Dolorian, Belegorn, Elanor, and a few others were waiting.

“Enjoyed yourself, Captain?” asked Belegorn, when he saw the expression on her face

“Kiss a wild boar,” she told him. “Dolorian, you’re in charge until I return. Don’t burn down the forest.”

“Well, you know me,” he said.

“Not a reassuring response,” noted Tauriel, affixing her weapons. She had not gotten around to finding a proper replacement for the bow that Thranduil-King had chopped in half. This one was out of the guards’ common armory, and the wood was yet unyielding to her fingers.

Other than her weapons, she carried very little; a hunting horn slung at her hip, and a roll of bandages tucked into a pouch on her belt. And additional ribbons for her braids, of course, but what elf would be without that? The royal guards traveled light. They drank water when they could from leaves and streams, or went without. The risk of a sloshing water bladder alerting prey was not to be borne. Nor did they need fire. When on patrol, the guards ate without cooking. No light or smoke would betray them.

It was not nearly as brutal as the courtly Sindarin elves would make it out to be. Actually, Tauriel liked the taste of raw meat. Legolas had eaten it too, not that she would ever tell his father that.

“Ready?” she asked her guards. There were five in total on this patrol: herself, Elanor, Belegorn, Mirdanion, and Hadril. That last was a bit of a gamble on such a long patrol, Tauriel had to admit. The girl had good forest instincts, but was always the first to clamor for a battle. In her current mood, that suited Tauriel just fine.

“Aye, Captain,” said Elanor, who seemed to have appointed herself as a lieutenant. Tauriel suspected that she had been the one to take her place as captain while she was gone. It was a worthy pick, and Tauriel could not say that she could quarrel with Thranduil in the least on the appointment. Even so, she knew that Elanor would be watching her for any mistake. That was why Tauriel always had her by her side. Usually she was her own watchman, but sometimes lately she hadn’t been sure whether she could trust herself.

Belegorn and Mirdanion were brothers. Tauriel had seen them hit the same target, at the same time, without looking at or communicating with each other. One arrow had entered the stag’s left eye; the other, its’ right. They reminded her so fiercely of Kili and Fili that it hurt, but they were also damn good to have in a battle.

It occurred to her that she had chosen three for their skill in combat, and only one to advise her to avoid it. She brushed off the thought.

In previous patrols they had gone along the Old Forest Road. The southern part of the Mirkwood was now entirely free of spiders—and Tauriel intended to keep it that way. It was an undertaking which required near-constant vigilance. Even one egg-laden female, hiding in a thick bramble, could give birth to an entire nest. But this time her thoughts turned elsewhere.

“We go north,” she announced. “When we meet the foothills of the Grey Mountains we will follow them west until we come to the river, and return along the north bank. Agreed?” Elanor looked askance at her but did not object.

“Sounds like a plan, Captain,” said Belegorn.

“Then let’s move,” she said. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

In truth, they might be in the foothills of the Grey Mountains after only a day’s hard run—but Tauriel insisted on stopping to check on the inhabitants of every steading and tree-holt north of the elf-king’s halls. Their fealty to Thranduil-King might be highly theoretical, but they were still denizens of the Mirkwood and privileged to the protection of the Guard. Besides, there were no better woodsmen alive. If they had not seen anything worrisome, Tauriel could afford to relax slightly.

Grawion the hunter was, quite literally, shoulder-deep into a kill when they found him, so they did not linger. But he acknowledged them with a nod.

“Has been quiet,” he said. His voice was shadowy from lack of use. “Your work?”

“Who can say?” evaded Tauriel. “Good hunting, friend.”

“And to you,” he answered gravely as they went on their way.

The rest of the visits went about as well as could be expected. The wedded couple of Elhador and Ferlain invited them into their cottage and treated them to a lunch of hunters’ stew, by far the friendliest reception they could expect in this part of the forest. They traveled further north and west, passing by the place where Tirnel was known to live. They did not sight him, but that was only to be expected, as he was a lover of starlight, a nocturnal creature. His traps were recently set, which Tauriel had to take as evidence as his well-being. On the other hand, the nearby clearing of Nathril the weaver was strewn in such brightly colored fabric that they could spot her from half a mile away. She cheerfully offered them their pick of a selection that would almost certainly make stealth impossible. Tauriel took one bolt of steel-blue, thinking she could present it to Thranduil-King along with her report, and carefully tucked it in under her jerkin.

They turned west the next day to seek out Ninimien and Eglossien, the silent lovers, and then north again to find Rainion the hermit, who promptly chased them out of his lands with a mace. Which, as Tauriel said to Hadril, at least meant that he had been eating properly.

“Maybe he could afford a little less energy, at that,” said Hadril, scowling. “Couldn’t we go back and teach him some proper respect?”

“No,” said Tauriel firmly. “Who else is left?”

“No one,” said Mirdanion.

“One more,” said Elanor. “Gereth the Fortuneteller.”

Mirdanion muttered unhappily.

“Who is she?” asked Hadril.

“A mad witch,” said Mirdanion.

“A woman who lives by herself,” said Tauriel, giving him a sharp look, “and does no harm to anyone.”

“A seer,” said Elanor. “Who was so strongly blessed by the Valar with foresight that it drove her mad.”

“That is only a rumor,” said Tauriel. “And one that has no bearing on our mission. We will go and be sure of her well-being.”

But it was another day’s travel until they reached the dwelling place of Gereth the Seer. She lived far, so far north and west that the Forest River was yet a mountain stream. Even those who rejected the Elf-King’s court and the relative safety of the South did not usually live so far from Thranduil’s halls. It was simply not wise. But then again, Gereth was said to be a seer. Perhaps she knew something the rest of them did not.

Then again, it occurred to Tauriel as she stood before the seer, perhaps there was a very simple reason why Gereth lived so far from other people.

One of the very startling things about Gereth was her beauty. She had a delicate face, but surrounded by a wild tangle of unbrushed hair. Her gown, as grey as her eyes, had obviously been bespelled to repel grime—which only made her dirty bare feet all the more startling. And her eyes, although striking in their loveliness, were also clearly and undeniably insane.

She did not speak, but only looked past them with her mad stare.

“Who was it that named her Gereth?” whispered Hadril. “How did she come by the name?”

“Hush,” said Tauriel. She addressed Gereth. “We are of the Royal Guard of Mirkwood,” she said. “We mean you no harm. Will you speak with us?”

“I know who you are, Taurîs.” Gereth’s eyes focused directly upon her, a profoundly unsettling experience. “There is a doom upon you…although a very little thing in the schemes of elves and Valar. Shall I tell you it? But then, you would not understand it. Only in the face of death will you ever find the clarity you seek.”

“You mistake me,” she replied, taken aback. “My name is Tauriel.”

Gereth said nothing, nor could Tauriel think of a single thing to say. Elanor saved her.

“We have come here to be sure of your well-being,” she said. “Have you lacked for anything this winter?”

Gereth only continued to stare at Tauriel. Tauriel stared back, uneasily.

“She looks fine, Captain,” said Hadril. “Shall we go?”

“You,” said Gereth suddenly, whirling suddenly. They all took a step back, their hands pausing about an inch away from various weapons. “I have come here to give you something.”

Hadril looked about herself. “I?” she asked nervously.

The mad seer took a parcel out of the pocket of her gown. “They will need to be cleaned in rainwater,” she said, as if Hadril had not spoken. “This will draw out the poison, understand?”

“No,” stammered Hadril.

“Your life is forfeit if she dies,” continued Gereth. “It matters very little, of course, but perhaps it might serve as incentive.”

Hadril held the parcel in both hands, looking confused and panicked. And when Hadril was confused and panicked, she tended to reach first for a weapon. Tauriel decided to step in.

“Thank you for the gift,” she said to the seer. “Let us be on our way quickly,” she muttered to her patrol, who were just as glad to be gone. Gereth watched them until they were out of sight and, Tauriel suspected, for some time after as well.

As they had planned, they would cut back through the forest along the north bank of the Forest River. Even Tauriel had to admit that it was just too risky to travel on the southern bank. The spiders had their main stronghold just south of the Forest River, where the forest was particularly dense and hostile. In this way they could keep an eye on the nests without getting too close.

Tauriel knew her definition of “too close” differed considerably from that of, say, the king, but it was well-known that spiders would not easily or willingly cross running water.

Perhaps it was for that reason that Tauriel had let her guard down. But this far north, where the trees were sparse and sunlight came down around them in huge sheets of gold, it was hard to think of danger. Tauriel and even Elanor allowed themselves to be drawn into a game; leaping downstream between slimy river rocks and trying not to fall in. Legolas would have shamed them all, thought Tauriel with a touch of sadness. She paused midriver to cast her gaze behind her, towards the northern mountains. Her best friend was somewhere beyond them—what dangers was he facing? Did he never think to come home? She barely had time to feel a moment’s sorrow before Belegorn pushed her into the water.

Tauriel sputtered and pulled herself out onto a rock. “Cheat!” she shouted after his retreating back, and raced after him to the laughter of the other guards.

They slept that night snug and warm in the shelter of a spreading pine and emerged to find the world glistening and new. A thunderstorm had passed over them in the night. A thousand droplets glimmered on the edge of every leaf and twig, lit into dazzling brilliance by the sunlight, more beautiful than any jewel. Tauriel felt amazingly alive. She drew a breath and savored it.

She wished Kili was here to see this moment.

Tauriel let out her breath and waited for the grief to pass, her own private thunderstorm. It was easiest to let it come and go. She would not grieve before others. Who would comfort her for mourning for a dead dwarf? Perhaps Legolas would have understood, but he was leagues away. She had no one.

When she felt sure she could control her voice, she gave the order to move out. Hadril, who had been discreetly filling her hunting horn with the rainwater that pooled in the hollows of trees, jumped. Tauriel frowned. The visit to Gereth must have shaken her more than she was letting on. She glanced toward Elanor and found the other elf’s eyes had already been fixed on her—possibly for some time.

“Keep an eye on Hadril, will you?” she asked in a low voice. “Use some of the energy you’ve been spending on watching me.” She didn’t wait for the reply.

They continued down the river at a more sedate pace than the day before. They were back in the Mirkwood proper by now, where ancient trees towered to the sky like the legs of giants and shadows clustered thickly at their roots. It was at once home and danger. Tauriel found herself casting nervous glances across the river.

“Lighten up, Captain,” said Mirdanion. “No one has seen any spiders for months.”

“Yes,” said Tauriel. “That is what’s worrying me.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Thranduil-King does not seem overly concerned,” said Elanor. Tauriel whipped around to look at her.

“Do you know the mind of the king?” she demanded. “Then do not speak for him. We have a duty that is all our own.”

A guilty look passed over the other elf’s face. “Captain,” Elanor began. “I must talk to you—”

She was interrupted by Belegorn, who had been scouting out ahead.

“I see something on the river,” he called, nervous tension in his voice. “But...”

“What is it?”

“A shimmer in the air. I do not think I could say what it is.”

They prowled closer. Tauriel still did not see anything until, suddenly, the light caught it in just the right way. Spidersilk, dozens of threads of it, spanning the impossible length of the river.

“A bridge,” said Tauriel. “They’re building a bridge.”

Somewhere over her shoulder, she heard Elanor take a sharp breath. “So this is what they’ve been doing these past few months,” she whispered.

The familiar heat of adrenaline and rage took over her body. She had been right! The spiders had only been biding their time.

“We’re cutting it down,” she ordered, her voice low and hard. There was no disagreement. Belegorn and Mirdanion climbed into the trees to hack away at the more entangled branches. Tauriel took a closer look at the bridge itself.

She saw now how it must have been constructed. The spiders must have tried hundreds of times to produce a strand long enough and light enough for the wind to carry it across the river and onto a protruding branch. From that single thread, they would have reinforced it over and over until one of their lighter males could crawl out on it, and he would have added more silk as he went. It was not finished; Tauriel could see the other end of the bridge, which looked as solid as steel and anchored firmly among the trees. But on the north bank, only a few dozen strands held the bridge in place.

Her eyes caught movement on the far bank.

“I think our presence has been noticed,” she said calmly, nocking an arrow. This bow was not as true as her old one, and it went wide, sinking into a leg joint rather than an eye.

“Cutting as fast as we can, Captain!” Belegorn called down from the trees. They had hacked down most of the thinner branches holding up the bridge, but some of the strands were attached to thicker limbs or even trunks, forcing the brothers to saw through the thick webbing. Even an elf blade would lose its edge on spidersilk.

Hadril drew out her two short spears and eyed the distance. “Allow me,” said Elanor, and smoothly nocked and fired. Spiders began to drop, but more and more were gathering on the other bank. They were directly opposite from the largest nest in the Mirkwood, Tauriel recalled. Arrows would not make a dent in their population. Some of the smaller spiders were beginning to swarm up onto the bridge. As fast as Elanor was shooting, she could not keep up. The spiders would reach them before Belegorn and Mirdanion could cut down the bridge.

All of this flashed by in less than a second, and then Tauriel was flying into the trees, bursting past the surprised brothers, and was running swiftly out onto the spidersilk cable. Her useless bow was somewhere on the ground behind her but her long knives were in her hands, and they had never failed her. There was nothing but rushing water beneath her and empty space between her and her enemy. She flung herself across that space, laughing. Her knives flashed as if she was wielding sunlight itself.

Her guards were yelling behind her, but Tauriel paid them no mind. She had longed for violence for an entire long winter, and now it was spring and she felt so, so alive. She drove her knives into eightfold eyes, slashing off legs and kicking their bodies off the wire. Any dancer in the world would have envied her at that moment. But even with the joy of battle coursing through her, Tauriel was forced to retreat, step by step, as waves of spiders came down the webbing until she was forced back to the midriver. Snarling, she slammed a knife deep into a spider’s carapace, killing it instantly. When she tried to withdraw it, she felt a moment’s fear for the first time in this fight.

It was stuck.

Sensing weakness, the spiders redoubled their attack. One came scuttling over the corpse of its nestmate, hissing, its fangs bared. As if leapt towards her, Tauriel managed to catch it on the point of her knife, abandoning the other. She stumbled back across the wire as they struggled, turning so that she was in profile to the north bank. Arrows hissed past her, keeping back the tide. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of Hadril’s spears go just wide of the spider at her throat.

Tauriel gritted her teeth. She would have to kill the beast herself. She twisted suddenly, taking the spider off guard and using the momentum to drive the knife hilt-deep inside the spider’s body, where it must have pierced a vital organ at last. Spider and knife fell together into the river.

“Captain!” cried an anguished voice behind her. There was a sharp pain in her shoulder, and the sensation of warm blood flowing down her back. Tauriel looked without comprehension at the spear point that had come bursting through her shoulder. She swayed on the slender wire. Her blood was dripping into the water below, and Tauriel suddenly remembered a different river, frozen solid; remembered looking down at it as she held a dead man in her arms. The thought brought her no sadness.

The clicking of mandibles brought her back to her own life. The second spider was advancing on her. Her right hand was empty. Her left arm would not obey her. As the spider leapt upon her, she could only stumble back uselessly, thrown off balance by the weight of the spear in the shoulder.

Tauriel heard, rather than felt, the sickening crunch of her own bones breaking. And then there was fire, spreading from her shoulder to the deepest marrow of her bones; it was in her blood, burning her from the inside out; it was searing her eyes, turning her vision black. Tauriel would never have imagined there was so much agony in the world. This was what dying felt like, she realized with a horrific certainty. That was her last coherent thought before her world went dark.

She fell, burning, into the river.

 

* * *

 

Confusing dreams took hold of her.

_Mirkwood needs you_ , someone was saying, but she suddenly understood it in an entirely different way, a way that was impossible, that made no sense. It wasn’t Mirkwood that needed her, after all, but—

And then Kili was beside her, still in the black and gold armor they had buried him in, looking at her sadly. She reached out for him—he withdrew, ghostlike, beyond the circle of her arms.

_I am coming to you, Kili_ , she told him, but he shook his head.

_You cannot_ , he said. His visage, so dear to her, was already fading away. _You know you cannot, Tauriel. Do not waste your courage for dying. Stay…_

The way he was speaking was so strange, familiar and yet not at all like Kili. She cried out for him all the same as he disappeared, slipping away into the black. Someone was shouting, out in the waking world, but it mattered very little. She slipped in and out of the dark, never quite opening her eyes. Consciousness was pain, but Kili’s voice was always there in her dreams, telling her to go back.

_It hurts_

_I know it hurts, Tauriel, but you must live. I love you more than life itself. I will not let you die_

She slept. Sounds crept in from the world of the living, meaningless and strange. Lifetimes and seasons passed by her, or so it seemed. Eventually she heard a voice, distant as if whispered through a crack in a wall.

“How very strange, Tauriel, that you should have been so wrong about me,” it said. A cool hand rested on her forehead. Tauriel struggled for speech.

“Kili?” she murmured. The hand withdrew, and she drifted back into the welcoming void.

A lifetime later, or perhaps a few moments, she woke in bed. Her throat was painfully dry. Reaching for water was an impossibility. Her right arm felt as weak as a newborn’s. She tried to move her left and had to bite back a whimper.

“Do not move yet,” said a voice. “You are not healed.”

If there was energy enough in Tauriel to do so, she would have started. It was Thranduil. Carefully avoiding her left shoulder, he slid an arm beneath her and lifted her to a sitting position. His other hand brought a cup of cool water to her lips.

She drank. Thranduil would only allow her to swallow it in short sips. She would have preferred to bury her face in the cup in order to avoid his gaze. His arm was still cradled warmly around her back and he was, she realized, kneeling by the bedside in order to bring the cup to her lips. It was very odd to have the king’s face be lower than her own.

“I can sit on my own,” said Tauriel finally, hoping it was true.

“I doubt it,” said the king, but he let go of her nonetheless. To her extreme irritation, he was right. Breathing hard, she managed to prop herself up against the headboard. She noticed then that this was not her bed.

“Where am I?” she asked, looking around. Thranduil raised his eyebrows at her.

“This is the healer’s ward. It is where the injured are traditionally taken.”

Tauriel did not find the sarcasm helpful, but forbore to mention it. She was probably in enough trouble.

“Would you like me to give a report, my lord?” she asked instead.

Thranduil paused as if in surprise and looked her over. “I have already received a report from your subordinates,” he said, his eyes lingering on her wounded shoulder. “Greater detail can wait until you are recovered.”

“That may take some time,” argued Tauriel, “and the danger that the spiders present to our forest will not wait, sire.”

“I suggest you focus your considerable energies on recovery,” he said. “Allow me the privilege of worrying over the enemies of Mirkwood.”

“Perhaps I would have no need of recovery if you would!” Tauriel said, losing her temper. She knew it was a mistake as soon as she said it. Thranduil’s expression froze.

“Oh?” he said. His voice had turned silken, which meant dangerous. “Were you not the one who put your own life in danger? Were you not the one who decided to face a nestful of spiders on your own? And were you not the one, _Captain_ , who has been behaving more and more erratically since we returned to the Mirkwood? You have been seeking violence for months. Do you now dare to deny that? And now you lie here, on what might have been your deathbed, and you seek further war?” His silken purr had descended into a rumbling growl. The furious glimmer in his eye took her aback, but only for a moment.

“I seek to prevent a war, not to begin one!” said Tauriel. “This quiet will not last. We have to strike now, while they are still weak.”

“And how much elvish blood will that cost us?” he snapped.

“As if you have the right to ask that,” she said bitterly. “You accuse me of seeking my own death? You once held a sword to my throat for daring to love a dwarf. You have brought the Mirkwood to war over a handful of gems—mere crafted things—but you will not defend our home and our future. Yes, life is pain to me. I suffer in my grief. What is it to you? At least I feel something.”

Tears were coming to her eyes for the first time in months. Tauriel wanted to disappear. She turned her face away, trying to hide them from the king. It was no use. Her breath came ragged with the effort of holding back her sobs.

But he was suddenly there at her side, and his fingers were gentle on her cheeks. Thranduil wiped her tears away with his own hands as if they had not been snarling at each other a second ago. That warm touch undid her. Tauriel surrendered to her grief and collapsed onto his shoulder. A keening noise had begun in her throat; wordless grief fighting for release. The king sat as still as a statue. Tauriel half-wished he would push her away. She knew full well that she was making a fool of herself, but could not stop.

At last the torrent ran dry. Tauriel felt emptied, hollow. Every part of her body ached. She lifted her head away from Thranduil’s shoulder. He was looking at her.

“I—”

“Do not apologize to me for mourning,” said the king. “It will pass. Loss is not the end.” He brushed a strand of her hair back into place. There were a thousand unreadable words in his eyes; Tauriel searched them and saw nothing she understood.

“You were the one who told me that my love was real,” she said, half-accusingly.

“So mourn it, Tauriel. And then live.”

She could hold back the words no longer. A secret so deep that she had not named it even to herself came out of her.

“And if,” she said, low, “there is nothing left to live for?”

“There is always something to live for,” said Thranduil. There was the strangest look on his face. “I have mourned for a thousand years before I found it again.”

There was no part of Tauriel that could possibly believe him. What was the world when her love was not in it?

But Tauriel also understood it for what it was. An order; an order to live. It was a good a reason as any other.

“Yes, sire,” she said finally.

Thranduil stood, apparently satisfied. “And I wish to hear no more of your arguments concerning the spiders.”

“That I will not do, my lord,” said Tauriel, a spark returning to her. “I will make my arguments when I am stuffed down a spider’s gullet.”

“I am sure,” Thranduil said dryly. Was that a smile? The king shook his head and made to leave the room. He hesitated at the door.

“You remind me of someone,” he said. “You have all her bravery, although none of her guile. But we used to argue the same way. Good night.” He slipped out the room.

Tauriel blinked tiredly. She had never thought of it before, but she knew of no one who argued with the king the way she did. Sleep rose up like a tide around her. It inexorably beckoned her eyes closed. A moment before she slipped into dreams, Tauriel realized that only one person would have dared—and the king had been mourning her for the last thousand years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who read, commented, gave kudos, and bookmarked, thank you all very much.


	3. Chapter 3

Tauriel stumbled into the starlit garden, laughing. She had crept out of her bed on nothing more than a whimsy—that, and she never could sleep when the moon was dark. The stars called out to her too brightly. She had been rewarded for her restlessness with a magnificent view: terraced gardens cascaded beneath her for hundreds of feet before running off seamlessly into the forest.  The wild beauty of it took her breath away. For the first time in a week the dead weight that was her left arm didn’t seem to matter.

 

Her room in the healer’s ward, which she had not been permitted to leave for the past week, adjoined a small and exquisitely boring garden. She had practically worn a groove in the grass with her pacing before she discovered the secret path through the otherwise impassable hedge. Nighttime had seemed a good a time as any to explore.

 

This wider garden was lush, almost too uncontrolled to be called a garden, except that everywhere grew small white buds. They looked perfectly ordinary save for the purity of their color. Tauriel did not think she had ever seen their like in the wild. She leaned closer to inspect them.

 

“In my childhood they thrived everywhere in this forest,” said a voice. “Now they grow only in this single garden.”

 

Tauriel whirled around, her heart hammering. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been as surprised as she was to see the imposing figure of the king, clad in rippling silver cloth. His face was tilted up towards the stars, seemingly ignoring her.

 

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out. “I mean…sire.”

 

The ghost of amusement passed over his face, still looking up at the dark heavens. “This is my garden,” he said calmly. “And yet I am so unsurprised to see you in it.”

 

“Oh—I—apologize, my lord.” Hastily, she bowed. As she did so her hair swung freely about her face, reminding her that she was standing before the king in bare feet and unbraided hair. Her ears burned. “I will leave you, then.”

 

Thranduil reached out and touched her shoulder lightly, raising her from her bow.

 

“No, Captain. Stay,” he said. “You are near to seeing something magnificent. Only pure starlight will entice these flowers to bloom. Behold.”

 

High above them, the winds scattered the last few clouds to gather and make rain elsewhere. The stars came out in their glittering multitudes. Tauriel stood on the high terraced garden and watched the earth become something new below her. For in every corner of the wild garden small white flowers were blooming and turning their faces up, more quickly than she could ever have imagined. Wave by wave they opened themselves wide, so pure and white that it ached her heart to look at them. They soaked up the starlight and cast it back into the air, a white and silver light that rose like a fog…until she was standing on a foaming sea, or a cloud; it was a dreamscape, perhaps, if she ever had dreams so pleasant. Tauriel could only tremble in wonder. She turned to Thranduil and found him already looking at her.

 

“It is a beautiful sight, is it not?” he said softly.

 

“I have never seen anything like it,” she said, meaning it with her entire heart. “Why do they no longer grow in the forest?”

 

Thranduil dropped his gaze. “They will not grow where the blood of elves has been shed,” he said.

 

And they had grown wild when her king was a child…Tauriel sucked in her breath.

 

“Yes,” he said. His voice seemed almost indifferent. “I have seen much war and death in my life. Forgive me if I do not seek any more.”

 

Something clicked.

 

“You fear war,” she said. “That is why you avoid it.”

 

Thranduil regarded her coolly. “You mistake me, Tauriel,” he said. “War is one of the few things that brings me joy. But a good king does not receive the luxury of happiness…and although I have never claimed to be a good person, I have tried, whether you believe me or not, to be a good king. So now you behold me, bereft of all save one of the things that I do love.”

 

Despite his icy demeanor, Tauriel felt a small moment of pity come alive in her. “I am sorry that Legolas is gone,” she said. “If…if I am to blame for his exile, I would offer whatever small recompense I may.”

 

He made a soft, sighing sound. “I do not believe you regret his exile any less than I,” he said. “My son made his own choice. Just as you did.” He hesitated, casting his eyes over the sea of white flowers. “If anyone is to blame for his absence—perhaps it is I.”

 

Tauriel struggled to believe her ears. “You?”

 

“I forbade him, many years ago, to promise himself to you. I knew his heart, and his intentions, but I advised him not to—” he bit off his sentence, but Tauriel finished it for him.

 

“To lower himself?” she guessed.

 

“Yes,” said Thranduil, with curious reluctance. “If I had allowed it…as I ought to have…I fear I have stolen something from my son.”

 

“My lord—” she swallowed. “You cannot steal something that would never have been given. Legolas was my best friend, my brother-in-arms. I would gladly have died for him, or at his command, but I could never have loved him. Not—the way he wanted me to love him.” Her throat felt tight. It was hard not to think of his love for her as a betrayal, irrational and awful as that was. She might have done anything to make him happy; it pained her to know that he wanted of her the one thing she could not give.

 

“I see,” Thranduil said only.

 

“But I worry after him,” added Tauriel. “I have always been at his side to keep him safe.”

 

They did not speak for a while.

 

“It is my desire—my will—that you remain here,” said the king finally. Tauriel, lost in contemplation for the flowers, started. “But if you wish to join my son in his travels, I will grant you leave.”

 

Tauriel stared. “Some part of me would like nothing better,” she admitted softly. Behind the mask of his face, some expression shifted, but she could not have said what it was. “But I fear that to go to him now would be a promise I cannot make good. Besides—” Her gaze drifted back to the flowers, swaying peacefully in the breeze, and the wild forest beyond them. “I have something to stay for.”

 

She heard Thranduil make the smallest sound, like an indrawn breath. When she turned to him, the king was looking at her strangely.

 

“Do you?”

 

“I—of course,” she stammered, confused. “I have known no home but the Mirkwood.”

 

Thranduil made a thoughtful noise in his throat and turned his attention back to the garden. Tauriel stared at his profile. Something was nagging at her memory.

 

“Save one?” she asked.

 

A pause.

 

“Of what do you speak, Captain?” Thranduil inquired. The calm chill in his voice made her curse her slip of tongue.

 

“I would not presume to ask, my lord.”

 

“But you did ask,” said Thranduil. “Say what you mean to say.”

 

Why did she keep doing this to herself? She took in a breath.

 

“You said you were bereft of all things that you love,” said Tauriel, forcing herself to find the words. “Save one. I truly would not pry, my lord,” she added desperately, as his silence stretched on. “I do not wish to know. I merely found it—curious, sire. I would never be so disrespectful to your privacy.”

 

She cast another glance at his profile. It seemed serene, except for his eyes, which were intense and focused on nothing in particular.

 

“I may tell you one day, Captain,” he said finally. “But I truly doubt I will.”

 

Tauriel let out her breath. “Yes, sire.” She sagged with relief, except, she realized a moment too late, not with relief at all but real weakness. Thranduil caught her by her good elbow and her waist about a foot off the ground. Suspicion flickered in his eyes.

 

“You are not well enough to leave your bed. Did you receive permission from the healers to be out tonight?” he asked her. Despite his nearness, her lips twitched.

 

“I am quite sure that I would have,” she answered. “…Had I asked.”

 

“Hmm,” said Thranduil. There was a small note of amusement in the sound. He helped her to stand. “We must all obey our healers, Tauriel.”

 

“Even you, my lord?”

 

“Not I, Captain. I am afraid that is a royal prerogative.” He was steering her, she realized, back to her own room. Tauriel tried to walk on her own power but merely slumped back against his arm.

 

“I am sure that it is not a royal duty to escort wandering elf maidens,” she protested, but rather feebly. Thranduil’s arm was extremely warm and solid beneath her cheek, and she could feel herself half falling asleep on her feet.

 

“I would contend that it is the duty of any lordly elf,” he said, leading her steadily onwards through the little secret path. Tauriel yawned against his shoulder, the same shoulder, it occurred to her distantly, that she had sobbed on a week ago.

 

“Then if I see any, I will be sure to let them know,” she said sleepily. She jolted awake a moment later, horrified by what she had just said, but Thranduil—to her shock—laughed.

 

It was a very low, brief chuckle, more of a shaking of the shoulders than a real expression of mirth, but Tauriel had never heard him do it before. She tried to keep herself from staring and failed.

 

“I leave you here, Tauriel,” said the elf-king. They had stopped at the threshold of her room. He was facing her, his hands still hovering at her ribs in case she should suddenly fall. She looked into his face. It was not cold at all, for some reason, in the starlight. She suddenly had the strangest thought that he was going to…to lean in and…

 

“Thank you,” she blurted out. “For—for your kindness. When I was…” She looked away. “You’ve already said that you don’t want my apologies, but I never offered my gratitude.”

 

“I take it gladly,” he said, pitched low. He left her then, and she fled to her bed and tried to lose herself in sleep.

 

She was another three days recovering in bed, sipping cool water and broth, before she was allowed visitors. First to arrive was Elanor, to her surprise, although she did nothing more than to look around nervously as if for eavesdroppers and give a terse report.

 

“…Having cut loose the bridge, we were able to find you where the current had taken you downstream. We then administered aid while constructing a litter to bring you back to the palace. Uh,” said Elanor, “the healers did say that those herbs Gereth gave us likely saved your life.”

 

“Yes,” said Tauriel. “You must thank Hadril for me.”

 

A look of relief crossed Elanor’s face but, ever a stickler, she cleared her throat.

 

“You have the right to have her punished, Captain,” she began.

 

“For what?” Tauriel demanded, at the end of her patience. “A mistake? As far as I am concerned, it hasn’t happened. You haven’t mentioned it to anyone, have you?

 

“No, Captain,” said Elanor. “No one knows but those that were with us.”

 

“See that it stays that way,” said Tauriel. She had pieced together what had happened during her long recovery. Hadril had seen the spider attacking her captain, panicked, and thrown her spear. It would have been an excellent shot as well, if only Tauriel had not moved suddenly into its path. Tauriel had snuck glances at the wound when her healers changed her bandages. The spider venom had done so much damage that it was almost entirely impossible to distinguish the spear wound. If the healers had noticed, they had not said as much to Thranduil.

 

Next to arrive were a contingent of her guards, Belegorn and Mirdanion and Dolorian and a dozen others, more than she would ever have imagined, and a dozen more sent messages. She found herself smiling uncontrollably and they in turn seemed delighted at her recovery. No onlooker would have guessed that these were elves that prowled through the woods with less noise than a wild fox. Their celebrations, aided by a smuggled bottle, were so boisterous that an irate healer came and banished the lot of them despite Tauriel’s laughing protestations.

 

Last to visit, as Tauriel had expected, was Hadril.

 

“Captain,” she mumbled, shuffling her feet by the door. “I—” she looked at her helplessly. Tauriel sighed.

 

“Come in,” she ordered. Hadril looked terrified but obeyed, shutting the door behind her.

 

“There’s no need for that,” said Tauriel. “I only want to thank you for treating the spider bite. I understand that I would have died without your help. I owe you my life.”

 

Tauriel had given some thought into this opening line. It was, it seemed to her, the perfect way to subtly hint that there was no more need for guilt without outright saying it. She thought it might be something Thranduil would say, and was proud of it. So she was extremely disappointed when Hadril burst into tears.

 

“Never mind,” she sighed.

 

“T-that seer gave those herbs to me b-b-because she _knew_ I would injure you! You wouldn’t have been in danger at all if I hadn’t—hadn’t—”

 

Tauriel patted her shoulder wearily. “I would rather not play this game, Hadril. I would not have been in a position to be injured if I had not done the mortally stupid thing that I did. But then again, I would not have had to exercise my bad judgment if the spiders had not been building a bridge. Let us simply blame the spiders and move on with our lives, shall we?”

 

Hadril looked up at her with wet eyes. “How can you say that?” she demanded. “How could you forgive me? I put a spear through your—”

 

Faster than the healers probably wanted her to move, Tauriel had clamped her good hand over the other elf’s mouth.

 

“Thranduil does not know, understand?” she hissed. “Yes,” she added, to Hadril’s shocked expression. “Your fellow guards lied for you, _to the king’s face_. Do not let them down. It was a foolish mistake on a day of foolish mistakes all around. You have more than redeemed yourself. Now please, forget that this entire thing happened.” She let go of her.

 

Hadril stood there, trembling. “But you don’t understand,” she said quietly. “I want to be punished. I did a wrong thing. I thought an awful thing. I—when I threw the spear I—was thinking about why you would put your life in such danger and I—remembered about that dwarf and how Prince Legolas is gone because of you and I—was angry when I loosed my spear.” She turned an anguished expression to Tauriel. “S-so you see. I cannot say that it was…a mistake.”

 

Fury sped through her veins like poison. Tauriel clenched and unclenched her fist.

 

“I was happier before you said that,” she said quietly. She turned away to look at small dreary garden outside her door, and forced herself to think of the wider garden beyond; of white flowers waving beneath starlight, and of the terrible crime of spilling the blood of an elf. As if her wound was responding to her rage, her shoulder was sending cascades of pain throughout her body. She gritted her teeth and spoke through it.

 

“If you are looking for someone to punish you, I will not do it,” she said, not looking at Hadril. “I forbid you to tell the king. I forbid you to tell anyone, understand? Your own guilt will be your punishment. Now get out.”

 

Hadril gasped. “Captain—”

 

“Do not make me kill you,” snapped Tauriel. “Believe me, I want to.”

 

A moment later, the door shut. Tauriel was again alone. She slumped against the wall and onto the floor, looking blankly into the garden outside and seeing none of it.

 

“Oh, Kili,” she whispered. “I will never be forgiven for loving you.”

 

* * *

 

 

That night Tauriel ventured back into the king’s garden. No starlit flowers waited for her this time, only wild green growth and the king in silver. He beckoned for her to join him.

 

“Good evening, my lord,” she said.

 

“And to you, Captain,” he replied, inclining his head.

 

“Sire, I—” She looked into his face and could not quite continue. Her practiced words fell apart and she grasped for something to say.

 

“My guards visited me in my room,” said Tauriel.

 

“Yes,” said the king dryly. “I did hear the commotion.”

 

“Oh.” Her ears were burning. “I apologize for that, my lord. But I mean—I meant to say—that they brought me some of my belongings. And I have here a—a gift for you, my lord.”

 

She revealed the bolt of cloth that had been hidden in the folds of her cloak.

 

“I had it from Nathril the forest weaver,” she went on nervously. “It is not as fine as the cloth they make here in the court, of course, but I—I wished to show you a sign from the people who live in your forest. Some small gesture of their great appreciation for you. For your rule, and your wisdom.” Thranduil said nothing. She looked down at the small bundle in her hands and suddenly found it humiliatingly inadequate.

 

“I cut out the bloodstains as best as I could, my lord,” she went on in a small voice. “But of course you would not want such a thing. I…I beg your leave.”

 

“Wait—”

 

His hand shot out and grasped her wrist. His touch was very warm against her skin. Tauriel held still as his fingers moved down her hand to the cloth. He took it from her with both hands and looked down upon it. It moved like water in his hands.

 

“Tauriel,” he murmured. “…I am grateful.” His throat worked. “Very grateful indeed.”

 

The thin sliver of moon above them revealed his face. She noticed for the first time that the cloth she had selected was the precise color of his eyes. She—

 

“I, too, have a gift for you,” said Thranduil, interrupting her thoughts. With infinite care, he folded away the cloth into an inner pocket of his robe.

 

There was a long cloth-wrapped bundle at his feet. Tauriel eyed it, her curiosity piqued.

 

“What could the king give to me, sire?” she asked.

 

“A safeguard. As I cannot give you a sense of temperance or caution, I can only try to keep you alive despite yourself.”

 

He picked up the bundle with both hands and presented it to her. Trying not to be too eager, she undid the wrapping with her good hand and unfurled the cloth to reveal—

 

A sword, gleaming in faint moonlight. She knew from a mere glance that it was from the royal treasury. The bloodgrooves were inlaid with gold and delicate sections of it had been removed to reduce the weight of it. The effect was of a golden lacework, or perhaps a cross-section of the hollow bones of a bird, rather than a sword. But she knew the blade was stronger than steel and would never break.

 

“This is a training sword. When you are proficient in its use, I will have the edges sharpened for you. They are not the traditional weapon of the Mirkwood, I know,” continued Thranduil. “But you will find them useful for open combat. They would have served you better than your knives against the spiders on the Forest River.”

 

Trembling, she lifted the sword out of Thranduil’s hands. It was heavier than her knives, but the balance was exquisite. There was something so right about the feeling of it in her hand, as if her arm was finally whole.

 

“If you would teach me,” she said, low, “I would be honored to learn.”

 

“Good,” said the king of the Mirkwood. He drew one of his own swords and pointed it at her. There was something predatory about his smile; Tauriel matched it in full measure. “We begin tonight.” For the second time in her life, Tauriel crossed blades with her king. And this time, she felt nothing but joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am profoundly grateful to everyone who has read, left comments, and given kudos. Particularly for those of you who left comments. I treasure them greatly and I am like, really sorry that I suck at responding to them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a spoiler, but this chapter will contain a (small, reasonably tasteful) smut scene near to the end. It will be bracketed by line breaks, for those of you who are averse.

Tauriel panted hard and circled to her left, hoping to draw her opponent into a feint, but he was stillness itself, as serene as the eye of a storm. She orbited around his fixed point, testing for weaknesses and finding none. Even attacking his left side, where she knew his eye was bad, produced only the same breathless speed as an answer. (Tauriel had long ago given up on trying to fight her teacher honorably). She flicked her blade out towards him as if trying for another feint, but then put all her weight behind the attack. With luck she ought to batter down his parry with sheer unexpected strength—

 

But Thranduil had anticipated her somehow. He simply sidestepped, allowing the force of Tauriel’s lunge to overbalance her. Tauriel sprawled on the grass. Thranduil did not bother to put a swordpoint to her back. She knew that she was beat. Cursing herself, and him, she rolled to her feet.

 

The past few months of lessons from Thranduil had certainly been a learning experience, mostly in how many different ways she could be defeated in battle. Things had not improved since the sling on her arm was removed a month ago. No sooner had he received the word than he had presented her with a second sword.

 

“These are twin weapons,” he had said at the time. “To only use one is to cripple yourself.”

 

She remembered the words now as he lowered his swords and regarded Tauriel coolly. It was another of their recurring arguments.

 

“Half an attack is no attack at all,” he told her. “Use your left arm.”

 

Tauriel set her jaw. “It was broken not three months ago,” she said defensively. “I need more time to recover.”

 

“Oh? Did you not petition me just last night to have you restored to duty despite the advice of your healers?”

 

“That is a different matter entirely,” she said, fuming, but she directed the words to his boots.

 

“Let us strike a deal then,” said Thranduil. “If you can prove to me that you can adequately use your swords— _both_ of them—in combat, I will restore you to active duty.”

 

Tauriel rolled her bad shoulder experimentally. The movement sent shocks of pain down her arm and through her back…but to be restored to active duty, she could stand it for a little while. She raised both swords.

 

“Your offer is accepted, my lord,” she said, and lunged at him. There was the smallest hint of a smile on his face as he ducked under one attack, parried the other, and sped his other sword towards her throat. She had to bring both her blades around to force it up and over her head, but that left her body open so she sprang to her right, rolling and coming up slashing at his leg. The king leapt over the attack as nimbly as if playing a children’s game. He attacked her from both sides, the one sword at her leg and swinging high, the other at her shoulder and swinging low, forcing her to parry wide. She lunged immediately back at him, and he skipped backwards lightly.

 

They went back and forth, testing, until Tauriel finally lost her patience. She lunged at him, her blades seeking his throat, but he smacked away both swords in one enormous blow. The shock of impact rippled up her arms and into her wound. Tauriel backed away, trying not to gasp out loud.

 

Excruciating pain was radiating from her shoulder. She kept her hold on her weapon, but only just barely. Thranduil withdrew, circled, and attacked again. Not trusting her left arm to stop a blow, she ducked frantically out of the way. The blade caught a single loose strand of her hair instead, and parted it in midair. It occurred to her suddenly that Thranduil’s blades were sharpened.

 

Of course, she had never been afraid that he would harm her. He was a master of the sword, and aside from light blows from the flat of his blade, he had never laid a scratch on her. But that was, in itself, a strategy…

 

Thranduil was not one to neglect a weakness. He advanced on her, carving the air almost lazily while she ducked and evaded, each time letting him draw closer.

 

It had to be now. He was near enough for this to work. Tauriel fought down her nerves.

 

This time, when Thranduil swung at her, Tauriel leapt into the path of the blade. She neither dodged nor parried, but sped directly at him as an arrow from the string. His eyes widened, for the first time that Tauriel had seen. He could not stop her, not if he wished to also stop himself from killing her. A grin spread across her face. The tip of her sword was only inches from his throat.

 

And then he did something unexpected. The king dropped his swords and, bare handed, knocked away her attack. He caught her unsharpened blade in his palm and whirled, ripping it out of her grasp. In the next moment her feet had been kicked out from under her and the king’s other hand was around her neck. He was on top of her, breathing hard. His silver hair fell around them both. Within that silken curtain, their faces were nearly touching. Tauriel felt her pulse jump, adrenaline kicking in at last, she supposed.

 

“Perhaps I was wrong when I said you had no guile,” said the king, close by her ear. His warm breath tickled the hairs on the back of her neck.  “That was a low strategy.” He did not sound at all disapproving. He rose smoothly to his feet and leaned down to give her a hand. She accepted it.

 

“How else am I to beat you? You have the superior speed and strength, and thousands of years of experience. I am still learning.”

 

“If you used both blades properly, you could best me,” said Thranduil, pulling her up. She nearly tripped over herself.

 

“You are pleased to jest, my lord,” she suggested.

 

“I am not,” he said, and indeed, he did not sound like he was. His voice was as low and flat as always. “I do not jest about such things. Knife-fighting may be a matter of speed and daring, but to duel with swords is to have an argument. Whoever can know the heart of her opponent will win.”

 

Tauriel cocked her head to the side, not understanding. “You win all of our arguments,” she pointed out.

 

A smile came and went, swift and cold as the winter sun. “Do I?” he asked. “You are restored to active duty, Captain.”

 

“You cannot be serious,” said Tauriel.

 

“Gratitude _is_ the preferable response,” he noted. He sheathed his swords and turned away. “You will report to me tonight,” he called over his shoulder. “I understand your subordinates will be coming back from the dawn patrol any minute now. I am certain they will be delighted.”

 

Tauriel forced herself to use her voice.

 

“Sire,” she called to his back. He paused and made a half-turn, looking at her with his good right eye. She knelt formally in the grass before him.

 

“Thank you,” she said.

 

She seemed to be saying that to the king a lot more often these days, she thought to herself as she raced through the palace. Why was the healer’s wing the furthest away from the guard’s wing? The guards were the ones that got injured the most often. Then again, they were also the loudest drinkers…

 

Tauriel burst through the guard’s entrance, panting. The dawn patrol was indeed just returning, the noon and dusk patrols idling in the courtyard playing at dice or making gossip. They all looked up at her arrival.

 

She smiled into the stunned silence. “The easy life is over, boys and girls. Captain’s back.”

 

There was a beat, and then the entire courtyard seemed to roar. Her men rushed to her, offering congratulations. Elanor stood and shouted something about giving the captain some room, but it made no difference. Dolorian came and picked her up bodily.

 

“I have never been so happy,” he told her in mid-air. “I beg you never to get bitten by spiders again.”

 

Tauriel laughed. “Well. You know me.”

 

He sobered, setting her down on the ground. “No, I do mean that, Captain. Do not make me report to the king again, as I had to when you were gone. I think my blood would turn to ice.”

 

She searched his face and found no evidence that he was joking. “Come now,” she said. “I know he is intimidating, but it could not have been as bad as that.”

 

“I was hardly going to say anything while you were on your hospital bed, but it truly was,” said Dolorian. “I—” he lowered his voice so as to be inaudible under the roar of the excited guards around them. “Do you remember when I was chased by a wild boar in the forest? And it would have killed me if you and Prince Legolas had not shot it full of arrows?”

 

“Vividly.”

 

“I was far more frightened, every day these three months gone, than I ever was in that moment,” he said.

 

“By Thranduil?” said Tauriel, shocked. “What did he say to you?”

 

“It was not what the king said to me. It was—” Dolorian shuddered. “I could never explain it. And if you will let me, I will gladly never experience it again.”

 

“I—yes, I suppose,” she said. Someone else was calling her name. “We will talk on this later. What?”

 

It was Elanor.

 

“Captain,” she said. “May I speak with you privately?”

 

Tauriel stared at the golden-haired elf.

 

“Certainly. Has this also to do with the king?”

 

The startled look on her face confirmed it.

 

“Excuse me,” murmured Tauriel. She seized Elanor’s arm and towed her through the crowd.

 

“I hope you are about to tell me the guilty secret you have been harboring since I got back,” said Tauriel, once they were alone.

 

“How did you know about that?”

 

Tauriel let the silence stretch on. It was a trick she had picked up from Thranduil. Elanor twisted her hands together.

 

“I will tell you what you do not know, then. Thranduil-King had given me a secret order, the night you returned from battle.”

 

Before she had even been restored to her post. “Secret orders,” she said slowly. Elanor swallowed.

 

“To report to him privately…on you.”

 

Pain spiked out from her shoulder. Tauriel bit down on her rage.

 

“To spy on me?” she asked. Her tongue felt oddly thick, as if her anger was pooling like blood in her mouth.

 

“No!” said Elanor quickly. “Well…only to watch you, and tell the king as much as any guard would know. Whether you look for company, or get enough sleep. Whether you seek out danger. Whether you confide in someone, or stay silent. Whether you smile—”

 

“Whether I _smile_?”

 

Elanor looked down. “Aye, Captain.”

 

“And you have been doing this for nearly a year now, have you?” Tauriel was trembling with anger. And, oddly—betrayal. She never thought Thranduil would stoop so low, or that one of her guards would be so treacherous.

 

“No, Captain,” she said. “Three months ago, I told the king that I would no longer divide my loyalties. And that if he forced me to, I would choose you.”

 

Her anger left her so quickly that she felt dizzy.

 

“Oh,” she said.

 

“I truly wished to tell you in the hospital room,” said Elanor. “But I remembered how close the healers wing is to the royal quarters—”

 

Tauriel thought of the secret garden path that Thranduil had seemed to know so well.

 

“You were right to think as you did,” she said. “…Thank you.”

 

“Do not thank me, Captain,” replied Elanor, shaking her head. “I betrayed your confidence. I thought I was doing it for—for some worthy reason, but there was none to be found. You are the same great captain that you have always been.”

 

She hesitated and clasped Tauriel’s forearm. As one of the few Sindarins in the guard, this was as if Elanor was giving her a bear hug.

 

“I am glad you are back,” she said quietly.

 

“And I,” said Tauriel with a small smile, “am glad that there are no more secrets between us.”

 

The noon patrol was leaving, and Tauriel decided to put herself on it. She had missed walking in the green woods of her home. It had been pleasant enough in the king’s garden—and she blocked off the thought. She did not wish to think of Thranduil just now.

 

Tauriel preferred to patrol along Middle or Canopy, but she had to admit her left arm was not healed enough to clamber into the trees. She ran with Ground instead, and was therefore present to keep an eye on Hadril.

 

As Captain, her job was to be aware of all of her subordinates’ duties and temperaments. As badly as she had misjudged Hadril, she could not believe that she had misjudged this badly. The girl had always been combative to a fault, but she had never before behaved hostile to her patrolmates. As Tauriel watched, she snapped at a guard and shoved another for getting in her way. This was too much for Tauriel to take.

 

“Enough of this,” she hissed, striding forward. The entire ground patrol had stopped at the sound of her voice. “Do you forget your duty so utterly?”

 

Hadril glared at her with some strange mixture on her face; half fear, half resentment. Tauriel forcibly unclenched her fists. Her wound was giving off pangs that grew stronger for every minute that their eyes met. She wanted to knock her to the ground, or at least have her out of her sight.

 

“You will go back to the palace and wait in your room,” she ordered. “Leave now.” Tauriel picked up the pace again without looking to see if her orders were being followed. The general feeling of satisfaction in the group told her everything she wished to know.

 

After the patrol returned to the palace, she had a private word with Celeneth. The Royal Guard didn’t have much of a formal command structure; the captain reported to the king, and the guards reported to the captain. But as one of the oldest and more experienced guards, Celeneth was the de facto head of the noon patrol.

 

“Actually, Captain, I am glad to hear of it,” she said when Tauriel had finished recounting Hadril’s actions and punishment. “I know she has saved your life, but ever since the attack three months ago she has been…erratic. If the spiders were still active in the forest, I believe she would have gotten us killed many weeks ago.”

 

Tauriel frowned. “But this is unacceptable,” she said. “Why have you not intervened?”

 

“We have tried talking to her, but to be truthful, I do not believe she is interested in argument any longer. I can have no idea what she hopes to gain.”

 

“I do,” said Tauriel grimly. “Inform her that she is suspended from duty until her behavior improves.”

 

“Aye, Captain,” said Celeneth, relief coming over her face. “It is good to have someone back in charge.”

 

“You might have brought this to me sooner,” pointed out Tauriel. “It was not as if I was on my deathbed.”

 

Celeneth shrugged. “The king did not want you to be burdened with your duties during your recovery, and we must all obey the king.” She barked out laughter. “Those of us that value our lives, at least.” She strode away, leaving Tauriel open-mouthed behind her.

 

For several hours she paced her lonely room, prowling back and forth until she felt caged in her own four walls. She was trying to prepare for her report to the king, but her thoughts kept going in the same circles. _He spied on me. He withheld information from me. He spied on me. He withheld information from me. He spied on me. He_  spied _on me…_

 

Snarling, she threw herself out the door.

 

The walk to the throne room was long, and did little to cool her mood. By the time she stood before the great doors, she had only gained enough presence of mind to allow the palace guard to announce her arrival.

 

The king was standing with both hands laid flat on the table, a dozen papers spread before him. He was looking down at them with his usual grave expression, but he looked up at her footsteps and seemed almost glad to see her.

 

“Tauriel,” he called out in greeting.

 

“Twice today, sire,” she said. The sight of the king seemed to have coalesced her anger into a burning-hot ember, buried somewhere deep inside her. She felt oddly distant from it. His steps toward her slowed.

 

“Captain, I—”

 

“I have smiled twice today,” she went on, even knowing better than to interrupt the king. “Once when fighting you, the other when I was reunited with my men. Does that satisfy?”

 

“Elanor told you,” said the king. There was a simmering edge to the words that warned her of danger. She ignored it.

 

“Yes. And others have told me how you forbade them from bringing important matters before me, to the material detriment of our patrol. Do you seek to undermine me so?”

 

His eyes narrowed. “If I wished to remove you, I would simply do so,” he said.

 

“Then why,” Tauriel demanded. “If you had such doubts about my leadership, why reinstate me in the first place?”

 

He paced back and forth. There was real violence behind the movements, not at all like his usual self. “It was not your leadership I doubted,” snapped Thranduil. “It was yourself. Can you tell me truly that I was not right to fear for your state of mind? Ought I not to be concerned for the happiness of my own captain?”

 

She felt an answering growl starting in her throat, but she caught it, took the anger and tamed it. She stilled.

 

“Have I done my duty, my lord?”

 

Thranduil hesitated. “Admirably,” he said.

 

“Then my happiness is none of your concern,” said Tauriel. “And certainly not through the low business you have made of it. Turning one of my own against me was unworthy. I owe you my duty, my king—and nothing more. Not my smiles, nor my sorrows, nor my solitude. They are for me. I have fought for and been scarred for them, and I do not care to give them up for any sneaking spymaster.”

 

“I am no spy,” said Thranduil, furious. “I am your king!”

 

They made an oddly inverted tableau. She, strangely calm; he, uncharacteristically and visibly angry. Tauriel knew this was when she ought to fear his wrath, bow and beg his forgiveness, and hope for mercy. But incredibly, impossibly, irrationally, she was not afraid of him.

 

“And I am your captain,” she said calmly. The anger that had swelled inside her so furiously had emptied, leaving nothing but firm resolve. “I will be treated as such. You may call off your spies or you may demote me. But I will not be watched in such a way.”

 

Thranduil was silent for a long while. Tauriel moved not a muscle.

 

“You are right,” he said finally. “I did not wish to consider it before, so consumed was I—but I was wrong to do as I did. I…beg your forgiveness.”

 

Tauriel let out a long breath.

 

“I may yet choose to give it, my lord,” she said. “But not today.”

 

He inclined his head to her, ever so slowly. Tauriel looked away at some point behind his ear. When she began her report, he responded as if nothing at all had passed between them.

 

The next day dawned clear and warm, and she found to her dismay that her men had taken advantage of her absence to skip their drills. The dawn patrol ventured into the woods, smirking, as their fellows trotted their first twenty laps under Tauriel’s baleful eye.

 

“Do not look so smug,” she called after them. “I have worse planned for your return.”

 

The statement had the double advantage of both being true and incentivizing her men to be additionally thorough in their patrols. She feared that the long peace had put them off their guard.

 

Overseeing archery and light sparring took up much up her morning. She finally allowed them a break to rest and prepare for the noon patrol. She frowned when her men formed into groups of bickering instead. The few Sindarins did not take part in it, but did look especially glum.

 

“What is this about?” she asked Celeneth.

 

“Hmm? Oh. There is only one space left on the dusk patrol, and of course they are squabbling over it. I forget, you would not have heard,” she added when Tauriel looked uncomprehending. “There is a general audience tonight.”

 

Tauriel groaned. Every few months, or as the whim struck him, the king held an audience for all his folk, those that dared, to come and petition him. It was, in Tauriel’s opinion, an unredeemable waste of time, and worst of all it was the one occasion when the Royal Guard was made to stand watch indoors along with the Palace Guard. Only those out on patrol would be exempt. Her men were fighting for a chance to be freed from the chore of duty inside the palace.

 

She made a decision.

 

“Enough of this fighting,” she said, striding into the argument. “I have a very simple solution. I will be putting _myself_  on the dusk patrol.”

 

Complaining erupted around her. “Captain’s prerogative,” she said with a smile. Gradually the men organized themselves into something resembling order. The noon patrol set out, grumbling only slightly. She resumed her training and drills until about two hours before sundown, when she released her men to get ready for the audience.  She herself clad her weapons and readied for patrol.

 

Out of pure practicality, only Sylvan elves composed the dusk patrol. Long ago, Sindarin elves had journeyed towards the light of Valinor. But as for the Sylvan elves, _their_  ancestors had turned away, and saw only the darkness of Middle-Earth. Their own eyes gleamed like those of cats.

 

Tauriel had thought the darkness would quiet her mind, but it only gave vicious teeth to thoughts she had kept constrained all during the day. Doubts that she had banished came back to haunt her. She thought back to the confrontation in the throne room and found it inexplicable. Tauriel had been right to speak as she did to the king last night; she was sure of herself in this. But for the king to react as he did was impossible. Thranduil was the elven-king of the Mirkwood. He did not beg forgiveness from lowly captains.

 

Then again, he did not give lessons in the sword to traitors. He did not allow sorrowing elf maidens to empty their hearts onto his shoulder. Many things she had thought she had known about Thranduil were somehow wrong.

 

But there were three facts she knew for a surety. She, Tauriel, had betrayed the king. His own son had betrayed him for her sake. And now his guards had done the same. Anyone else in her position should have been executed. So why wasn’t she? It was inexplicable, a riddle with no answer. There was one idea—a nagging thought—but she shook it away impatiently. That could not be it.

 

If there had been enemies lurking in the shadows that night, Tauriel would not have seen them. Her thoughts would not let her be. She had intended the keep the patrol out late tonight, but she could not summon enough will to do so. In her heart she wished to flee the darkness of the woods and walk under the light of the stars in the king’s garden. Tauriel turned the patrol back for home.

 

She knew something was wrong when she saw Elanor trembling in the courtyard, alone. The elf would never have abandoned her duty on a night like this; she looked to Tauriel, her face drawn.

 

“I hope you have not come too late,” said she. “Hadril has told the king everything. He has sentenced her to die, and die by his own hand.”

 

The world, so full of wayward shadows and endless questions, abruptly narrowed to a single point. One of her own guards was about to die. And Tauriel finally understood what she had known all along. She stood there in the darkness, just out of the circle of Elanor's flickering torchlight, and everything was made clear.

 

She knew now why the king showed her kindness that he did not reveal to others. She knew why he had chosen to forgive her, and why he in turn had begged for her own forgiveness. And she knew why he was about to kill an elf on her behalf. She ought to have known that only one thing could have made him behave so irrationally; only one thing could have made a king beg, made a proud elf look for every reason to spend time with a lowly captain. She, Tauriel, who had so recently been its victim, should have seen it more clearly than anyone.

 

No plan or decision sprung into her head; she simply acted. Without speaking a word to Elanor, she leapt past her and into the palace. She raced through empty passageways, pushed through shortcuts only guards knew. The distance seemed to evaporate beneath her feet. Before her, the great doors of the audience hall were open. Tauriel burst through them and looked out over the crowd. No one marked her entrance. Every gaze in the hall was transfixed by the scene on the dais: some looking with sadness, some with terror. Thranduil’s occasional cruelty was the price they paid for his wisdom and guidance. Tauriel had never questioned that trade off so clearly until this moment.

 

Hadril was kneeling before the king, who was smiling. It was not a kind smile. It was a glimmering knife-edge, a promise of violence and death. She knew it just as she knew her king: a creature of dark appetites; appetites that she recognized in herself. But she also knew the king that grew white flowers in his garden, and brushed back her hair when she was weeping. She could not let him do this. For some reason she could not name, she knew it would kill her to see innocent blood on his hands. Tauriel raced through the crowd, knocking aside the assembled elves. He lifted his sword high; the glint of light off its tip caught every eye in the room.

 

This was no practice blow. This was an executioner’s swing, a true killing blow. And Tauriel threw herself before it.

 

She did not close her eyes; she did not watch the sword. Like any good duelist, she watched Thranduil’s eyes and saw the shock and desperation come into them. When the tip of the sword cut open her cheek, she was aware of no pain.

 

It was silent except for the steady drip of her blood on the floor. Thranduil was breathing hard before her, his chest visibly going up and down like the steady beat, beat, beat of her heart in her mouth. She saw the expression on his face. If anyone else had, they would never have guessed what it meant. Not like she had. It was gone a moment later, as Thranduil mastered himself. He threw the sword at his feet, where it clattered. Tauriel guessed that everyone in the hall flinched at the sound except for the two of them.

 

“Get her out of my sight,” he said coldly, sweeping away. “This audience is ended.”

 

The palace guards hesitated in his wake, not knowing whether the king had meant herself or Hadril. Tauriel took advantage of their confusion. She gestured to her own guards, who hesitated before drawing closer.

 

“Send her to some lonely outpost somewhere,” said Tauriel under the noise. The hall had erupted into confused and nervous chattering as soon as the royal doors had closed behind Thranduil’s cloak. “Let her keep watch on Dol Guldur for the rest of days, for all I care.”

 

Hadril, who had been kneeling stunned and silent at her feet, sprang up.

 

“Captain—”

 

“I wish to hear nothing from you,” Tauriel said harshly. “You disobeyed my order. You wish for punishment? Here it is.” She turned and looked her directly in the eye. “And you will take it gladly, and trouble me no more.”

 

She did not wait for an answer before she, too, strode off the dais. Nobles and great elf-ladies made way for her. Tauriel paid them no mind. Her feet took her to the healer’s wing. Her little room that had been a cage for her for so long was empty. The sight of it made her oddly melancholy; but she passed through it without pausing and went surefootedly along the secret path that she had traveled so many times before.

 

She found him, as she knew she would, in his garden. Starlight and moonlight were coming down in waves around him. They reflected off his eyes, making him look almost blind. She could not tell if he wept. His robes were shining silver in the night, as if made of starlight themselves. She looked at him and felt her heart race; an impossible feeling.

 

“Why, Captain, would you seek me out now?” he murmured. His voice was low and deceptively even. “Can you not see I do not wish for company?”

 

“If you truly wished to be alone, you would not have come to this place that we both know,” said Tauriel softly, drawing closer. He would not look at her.

 

“I spilled your blood.”

 

“You would not have harmed me.”

 

“Can you be so sure?” he answered, low. “I once stood before you with my sword above your heart. I would have done it without a regret.” His voice wavered on the last word, giving him the lie.

 

Tauriel could feel the mad drumbeat of her heart in her mouth but spoke anyway. “And I nocked an arrow at yours. But something has changed between us, has it not?…Thranduil.”

 

He looked at her suddenly wide-eyed, as if his name on her tongue had been a clarion call. He did not speak. His hand lifted slowly to her face as if she was a wild animal to be soothed. Encouraged when she did not flinch, he ran a finger down to the nick on her cheek.

 

“It is already healing,” she told him. He seemed not to hear.

 

“I wanted to kill her,” said Thranduil. The hand on her cheek trembled. “Very much, I wanted to spill her blood. She would have slain you! And you…” his eyes focused on hers, intense as harsh sunlight. “You stopped me. Why? Can you say I did not have the right?”

 

“I know what she has told you; she has told me the same. But she does not deserve to die for it. Perhaps..." Tauriel hesitated, and then it spilled out of her. "Perhaps I would not have seen innocent blood on your hands.”

 

His expression shuttered in his face. He withdrew from her, shaking his head. “A foolish thought,” he murmured. “I am already stained to the bone. You above all should know this.” His eyes glittered. “You sought to protect my honor.”

 

She followed him even as he stepped back, drawing daringly close. “And why should I not?” she demanded. "Your honor is mine."

 

Thrnaduil sucked in his breath at that.

 

“It is not your place to say so,” he said, but he said it without conviction.

 

“But that is not true, is it? Not in the way you think about me.” A memory that she once thought had been a dream came back to her. “I was dying and lost, Thranduil, and you told me that you loved me. Was it true?”

 

He flinched at the question as if slapped.

 

“I…I have not the right to say it.” His breathing was coming fast.

 

“As much right as any,” she whispered, searching his eyes. She could almost see what she sought. She took a step closer, into the circle of his body heat. His expression trembled and broke.

 

“Tauriel,” he said, and the way he spoke her name told her everything. The arms of his robe circled around her, embracing her in silver and starlight. When they kissed, she felt as if she was falling into the sky. It was not love. But it was something close to it.

 

They broke apart after scarcely a heartbeat to stare at each other. There was a new look in Thranduil’s eyes that she had not seen before. With a thrill Tauriel realized it was lust.

 

He must have seen the same in hers, because he kissed her again, hungrily. This time their kiss deepened almost immediately, their bodies melting together, his hands flush against the small of her back, hers curled around the back of his neck. Tauriel felt heat gather all along her body. She might have been happy to let the kiss go on forever, but there were suddenly more pressing things on her mind. She pulled away and took Thranduil’s hands in hers. They were as callused from the sword as hers were from the bow. His eyes were feverishly bright. She said,

 

“Take me to your chambers.”

 

* * *

 

The chamber of the king was flooded in the light of the moon and stars. It pooled on his bed. It touched his skin and set it to glowing. Her hands went to the clasp of his robes and his hands, so sure just a moment ago, stilled on her ribs. She looked at him in confusion and found him looking helplessly back.

 

“Tauriel,” he said, and once again the way he spoke her name made her blood roar. “I must confess to you. I have not held a woman since—” He left the rest unsaid. There was only one ‘since’ in Thranduil’s life.

 

“In all that time?” she asked in disbelief. “For a thousand years, not once?”

 

He gazed at her steadily. “There has been no one.”

 

Tauriel caught her breath, suddenly feeling dizzy. She began to withdraw her hand, but Thranduil captured it in his and brought it to his heart.

 

“I am not unwilling,” he said. Indeed, his expression was almost nakedly eager. “I will simply require…guidance, Tauriel.”

 

“You will do as I say?” she asked. He tilted his head. “Then…my lord…take off your clothes.”

 

Thranduil looked a long moment at her and obeyed. First was the heavy outer robe, a beautiful work of craftsmanship, fastened by a single, deceptively ornate clasp: it slithered off his shoulders to the floor. His inner garment was lighter, fastened by knot-ties that ran down his shoulder and sides. He undid the last with, Tauriel noticed, slightly trembling fingers. It fell apart around him, revealing a slender form, supple and strong. It reminded Tauriel of nothing else but the wild predators she saw sometimes in the forest; all lean muscles and casual killing power. She ran a hand down the slope of his arm and discovered a scrap of blue cloth. It was tied around his left arm, the arm closest to his heart. He looked at her as if daring her to make something of it.

 

Instead she kissed him again. He was naked before her, the stiffness of his arousal pressing against her. Tauriel ran her nails lightly up his ribs, relishing in the way his skin shivered under her touch. Thranduil gathered handfuls of her uniform in both hands and began to tug her towards the bed. Willingly she followed him, still kissing, still pressed against the warmth of his bare skin. Her lips curved against his a moment before she pushed him into bed.

 

She took a moment to relish his surprise and then followed him, still fully clothed, and licked a long line up the inside of his thigh.

 

To hear the king of the Mirkwood moan was a startling thing. Tauriel decided that she liked it.

 

Her tongue swirled teasingly over the rise of his hips, his inner thigh, anywhere but where he longed for her touch. The king quivered beneath her but to his credit, did not beg. Perhaps, she thought, she would teach him to do that later. For now, she slowly laid kisses up the length of his cock. She lingered more and more deeply on each kiss the further up she went. Thranduil was making soft exhalations with every press of her lips. When her tongue at last flicked delicately at the sensitive tip, he jerked violently and Tauriel had to press her hands on his hips to keep him restrained. She could feel the strength of him beneath her palms, but under her mouth he had become quite helpless.

 

"Lie still," she whispered to him, and took him into her mouth. Thranduil groaned but did as she had commanded. His hand came up and ran through her hair. She licked her name on his cock, in common and elven, which made him chuckle between gasps. Tauriel kissed her way up his body, along the exquisite curve of his neck, until their lips met. Every nerve in her body seemed to have given itself over to the sensation of this kiss; she felt the warmth of it in her bones. She shuddered against him, her fingers curling in his silverblonde hair. His own hands were moving; they pushed her skirt up to her hips. Her flesh grew hot at his touch. But even then he paused.

 

"Tell me," he said to her.

 

"Undress me," she replied. Her voice was coming out husky with desire.

 

Thranduil unlaced her bodice with more haste than elegance. She wore less than he had, still in the simple hunting garb she wore on patrol. It came off her readily. Thranduil's hands slowed. They went in slow lingering circles up her body, stroking and restroking her skin as if his eyes needed the confirmation of his hands. His fingertips sent desire flushing through her in red waves. She rolled onto her back and greedily he followed, laying kisses down the inside of her arms, the soft skin of her neck. His hands prowled down the curve of her ribs and finally came to rest on her hips. He was between her legs, his lips trailing warmth down her abdomen, and there he paused. His breath was warm and quick against her body. He was looking at her, his eyes sharp and bright as knives. Tauriel had never been so aroused.

 

"Yes," she said to his unspoken question. "I want you in every part of me."

 

He gave a low, wordless growl in answer, more of a purr than anything else. The sight of him between her legs, strong muscles roiling under broad shoulders, sent shivers through her body. Thranduil lowered his mouth to her sex and lapped at the wetness he found there. In this, she found, he needed no instruction. His tongue flicked inside her and at every part of her, tasting and exploring. Tauriel could not help but to moan out loud. She arched against his mouth, wishing that his lips and his clever tongue could be everywhere on her. Waves of indescribable pleasure were crashing over her head and forcing the air out of her lungs. She was crying out, so loud that she could not believe that the entire forest did not hear. Thranduil pressed against her shifting body, his fingers digging into her hips, his tongue setting a quick, even rhythm that matched her drumming heartbeat. Her toes curled against the warm curve of his back. She and her king were one creature for a moment, united in perfect pleasure.

 

Even so, she had to bite back the name on her lips as she came.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel panted as she fell back into the softness of Thranduil's bed. The urgent desire that had taken hold of her was gone, replaced by the heavy contented warmth of orgasm. She felt more relaxed than she had been, it occurred to her, in a year. Thranduil reached up and brushed her sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. He was still erect with unreleased desire, but that didn't seem to matter to him. He was absorbed wholly in her body, touching and kissing and feeling every part of her. His caresses were slow and tender, without lust or urgency.

 

She leaned into his touch, settling warm and content into the circle of his arms. Her breathing slowed. His hand was running over her hair.

 

"Tauriel?" he asked softly. Although she did not sleep, sleep lay heavy upon her. Tauriel did not answer. Thranduil continued to lightly stroke her hair. Presently he began to sing.

 

His people had always been fabled masters of song, even among the elves, but she had never heard Thranduil sing. He had not, it was said, since his queen died. He sang for her now, and his voice was low and beautiful. Tauriel felt tears come to her eyes, although they did not seep past her closed eyelids. The song was unknown to her, yet somehow felt as familiar as an old friend. It was about her.

 

_Far deep within the twisted wood_

_Far deep within the shadowed land_

_Both king and forest steeped in blood_

_And under evil towering_

_How sick of heart, how stained the hand_

_That once was fair to see and good_

_Grief was upon him like a brand_

_For he was lost and sorrowing_

_There was a fire under tree_

_There was a fire in her hair_

_Before her hand the shadows flee_

_Her eyes like torches glimmering_

_Oh huntress of the Greenwood fair_

_Fearless and fleet of foot is she_

_She walks where darkness does not dare_

_Her steps like sunlight shimmering_

_But her beauty the king knew not_

_But her courage was yet unseen_

_Til the king re-found what was unsought_

_She faced him without wavering_

_Unshed tears gave her eyes a sheen_

_Beyond despair yet still she fought_

_With rage she named his hands unclean_

_And set his soul to quavering_

_Her heart he cannot hope to win_

_Her heart is as a far-off star_

_Yet lies her warmth his arms within_

_Sleeping e'en his hearts' thundering_

_His lips have worshipped every scar_

_Her grief is written on her skin_

_That certain knowledge cannot mar_

_This happiness; now wondering_

_...How love came back to me._

 

 The last was sung softly, fading away into the nightsounds. It soon gave way to the even rhythm of sleep. But Tauriel stayed awake for a very long time, wondering what she had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not be concerned, dear readers...trust me. The slow burn has only just started. It just may not be the slow burn you were expecting.
> 
> Thranduil's song at the end is loosely based on the Lay of Beren and Luthien, an infinitely better-composed work.
> 
> As always, thank you to all those that commented, gave kudos, bookmarked, and simply silently read and appreciated. I adore every one of you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The current year is TA 2944.

In the darkness before the dawn they found themselves entangled in each others' arms, noses pressed together, breathing in the exhalations of the other. In two years of this intimacy, Tauriel had yet to become used to the idea of waking up next to the king. It helped, sometimes, to think of him as simply Thranduil; in sleep he wore no crown. In this quiet moment before either of them were fully awake, he was only an elf like any other.

 

Except in one aspect, she thought, as his fingers traced lazy circles on her skin. Tauriel rolled into his touch, her mouth seeking his. Encouraged, Thranduil’s hands slithered to the small of her back and brought her close. Tauriel had had bed partners and lovers over the centuries, but no one had _ever_ set her skin on fire in this way.

 

Except for Kili, and the single touch of a hand that was their last before his death.

 

She sighed and turned away. The fire had turned cold.

 

"Tis nearly dawn," she said to the king. "I must make ready for the day."

 

He propped himself onto his elbows. His eyes gazed into hers as if he knew exactly what thoughts had been in her head.

 

"Be well," he said only, and inclined his head to her. Tauriel dressed herself with haste and left the king's chambers.

 

She was earlier than any of her guards, the sun being barely a suggestion in the sky. Her excuse must have been fairly transparent to Thranduil, but he had not chosen to confront her on it. He never did, although she sometimes more than half-wished that he would. Tauriel was neither comfortable nor familiar with guilt.

 

In the empty courtyard, quite alone in the cold darkness of the pre-dawn, Tauriel unsheathed her swords.

 

It was impossible to practice her swords without thinking of the one who had tutored her in their use; but as that was unavoidable in any case, she might as well stretch her muscles. She sped through her forms—if Thranduil were here, he would tell her to do them over again, properly, but he was not. She had never liked the slow build of muscle memory, although she had endured it to learn the bow. She preferred it when they sparred together, sword against sword and craft against cunning, just the two of them and the sound of their breathing.

 

Tauriel slashed at the air, fighting imaginary enemies, fighting shadows, fighting herself. Her breath frosted before her in the chilly air. She must have slain a thousand white orcs when she was interrupted by a voice.

 

"You ever consider teaching me those moves, Captain?"

 

"You are more useful to me with all of your limbs, Dolorian, so no." She straightened to look over her shoulder at him, nonchalantly munching on an apple. It was still well before dawn, and they were the only two there. She sheathed her swords.

 

"Who is running dawn patrol today?" asked Tauriel.

 

“Not you?” Dolorian shrugged. "Then likely it will be Elanor. She is generally one to take point."

 

"Then walk with me," Tauriel said impulsively. "We will go on patrol by ourselves. I do not want to be Captain just now."

 

"That would be a first for you," noted Dolorian, but he fell into step with her nonetheless as he finished off the apple, core and all.

 

Without conscious thought, Tauriel had set their direction east, towards the rising sun and towards Erebor. They could see it in the hazy distance, backlit on the horizon by the break of day. Tauriel climbed into the high branches for a better view. Dolorian followed after her, and together they watched the sun rise. She stared into it unblinking until her eyes began to water. Dolorian touched her elbow lightly.

 

“Are you alright, Tauriel?” he asked.

 

"I am," she said. "I am. I just did not understand how complicated this might be. That was foolish, I must suppose. But that describes my life in its entirety, does it not?" Her hands were twisting in her lap. She could not stop herself from speaking. "I have been such a fool, and I have earned every scar. And, and somehow I thought it would help, that it would make me forget—is that selfish of me, that this was my reason? I feel selfish. I feel like a fool. Every time I look at him, I feel as if I am breaking in two. I am still—I still love—” Her throat closed and choked her off. She could not say it. She never could say it, not until he was dead and it was too late. It was her bitterest regret. Tauriel lowered her face to her knees and said no more.

 

Dolorian was silent beside her, uncomfortable.

 

“I would help if I could, Tauriel,” he said at last, “but you must know that it is more than my life is worth to give advice in this situation.”

 

“My apologies,” said Tauriel softly. “My selfishness again.”

 

He made an incredulous sound. “You are the least selfish person I have ever known,” he said. He sighed. “I suppose my life is not worth a great deal in any case. No one thinks you are being selfish, whomever you love. Well,” he amended, “no one who knows you. And the only elves in this forest who do not know you are the court elves, and since when have you cared what they think of you?”

 

Tauriel could not help but let out a sharp laugh. “That feeling has always been mutual, before. Now I find that they think of me a great deal.”

 

“As does everyone else,” said Dolorian. She looked at him sharply. “I do not believe you cannot know. It is not as if the gossips take a day off when his majesty takes a lover. There are a hundred rumors about how you won the heart of the king.”

 

“Oh, no,” said Tauriel, diverted.

 

“Hmm, yes. Shall I tell you my favorites?”

 

“But—why would they care? What does it matter who shares his bed at night?”

 

Dolorian tilted his head at her, perplexed.

 

“Well—” he said, and paused. “You—” he paused again. “If you do not already know, I can say with honesty that I have no notion of how to explain it to you.”

 

Tauriel met his eyes. “I will never be his queen, Dolorian.”

 

He looked away from her gaze. “It is not just that,” he mumbled. “Have you not seen how much kinder he has been? These past two years he has been more gentle than I have seen in my lifespan.”

 

“Perhaps,” she said, unwilling to concede it. She did not like to think of the implications of that.

 

“But,” he said, “I would not…none of us would…buy that kindness with your happiness.”

 

Tauriel could not help it. He had looked so forlorn and hesitant, saying it, that she burst into laughter.

 

"Believe me, Dolorian, that I have so little of my own that I would not sell it so cheap." She smiled at him. "I think I have given you the wrong impression. I am not dissatisfied. But you are sweet to worry," she said, squeezing his hand. She was no more clear in her mind, but somehow she felt better. She rose to her feet. “Thank you for listening.” A thought occurred to her. “Those rumors..."

 

"Yes?"

 

“You haven’t had any hand in them, have you?”

 

Dolorian honestly seemed baffled. “Why would I? Some of them are very imaginative, though, so I am flattered…”

 

Tauriel stared hard at him. Comprehension flushed into his face.

 

“Oh! No, strangely enough, there are not many that remember what misadventures two lowly Sylvan elves in guard training together got up to in their spare time.” He waggled his eyebrows. “However athletic those misadventures might have been.”

 

She snorted. “Well, try not to refresh any memories.”

 

Dolorian gazed up at the canopy, seemingly deep in thought.

 

"You mean," he said, "do not reveal the location of that sensitive spot on the back of your--"

 

Without so much as raising an eyebrow, Tauriel kicked him off the branch.

 

Dolorian flipped backwards instinctively as he fell, twisting in midair to grab hold of the next branch down. He hauled himself onto it and gaped at Tauriel.

 

"I could have died!" he exclaimed. She gave him a look.

 

"I might have twisted an ankle," he amended. "Also, Captain, I think you ought to be Captain again. As I was falling to my death, I happened to see a man in the distance. He was riding towards us."

 

The man turned out to be a messenger from Bard the Bowman. Tauriel and Dolorian accompanied him along the elf-path to the palace and into the throne room. Thranduil was holding court, a flurry of bureaucrats and courtiers attending him. Tauriel had no notion of what they did, save that she sometimes received extremely strange orders that could be traced back to their meddling. His bored expression lifted somewhat as she strode through the doors, and then his eyes shifted to Dolorian and narrowed.

 

The messenger stepped forward, apparently oblivious to the sudden awkwardness.

 

“Hail, Thranduil-King,” he said, kneeling. “I come as an envoy from your ally, Bard the Bowman.”

 

Thranduil turned his regard onto the human.

 

“We remember Bard well,” he said. “Speak.”

 

“The great city of Dale has been rebuilt. In a fortnight hence will be the celebration, and the coronation of our new king. Your majesty would honor us with your attendance.” He proffered a folded sheet of paper, which was ferried up the dais to the king by a palace guard. Thranduil scanned it.

 

“Mirkwood will honor its ally,” he said. His eyes flicked towards Tauriel. “Will you accompany me, Captain?”

 

“I will, my lord,” said Tauriel, covering her confusion. Others in the court were not, but looked at her with speculating eyes. This would add an entirely new dimension to the rumors, she thought with despair.

 

With a heroic effort she remained stonefaced and unmoving until the affairs of the court were done with. Dolorian meanwhile seized the departure of the messenger as an excuse to leave Thranduil’s presence. When the court was concluded for the day, she slipped demurely into Thranduil’s wake as he left. Away from the others, he slowed to her pace, his hand slipping under her elbow as if she were some noble lady and not a guard.

 

“Not to question your orders—”

 

“Which you would never do, I am sure.”

 

“I do not understand why I am needed at a human coronation.”

 

“Nor do I,” said Thranduil, stopping her in her tracks. “Yet an honored ally has requested your presence, and I would not do him the insult of refusing it. Nor would you, I hope?”

 

He passed her the letter. Bard had an uneven scrawl, the script of a man who had been raised a riverman, not a king. But she could clearly see the invitation included her name.

 

Tauriel frowned. “Why—?”

 

“You will receive the opportunity to ask at his coronation,” he said smoothly. “Galion!”

 

Tauriel jumped as he appeared out of the shadows.

 

“My lord?”

 

“Have preparations made. The captain and I ride for Dale in a fortnight.” He swept away, leaving Tauriel and Galion staring at each other warily.

 

“I do not suppose you have ever had a dress made?” he asked. Tauriel raised an eyebrow at him. “Then, Captain, allow me to apologize in advance.”

 

Later that week, enduring her fourth fitting, Tauriel reflected that the apology was not nearly enough.

 

Apparently the cut of the dress was a particular issue. Tauriel had scars where higher nobles would have smooth skin. In particular her left shoulder was still hideously marked by the spider bite; the damage spread over to her collarbone and down her upper arm, making any of the traditional necklines impossible. According to the head seamstress, Nethrien, that was making this one of the most difficult dresses she had had to make.

 

Admittedly Tauriel did nothing to make her job easier.

 

“How do you stand to look at these scars?” Nethrien asked, during a particularly trying day for them both.

 

“The king doesn’t seem to mind,” said Tauriel, which effectively ended all conversation. At least until the head seamstress finally retreated, and the fitting maids all burst into giggles.

 

In the end, though, the dress was beautiful, green and gold silk like sunlight filtering through new spring leaves. Rumpled golden tulle embellished the neckline and shoulders, covering her scars and making it seem like there was only undamaged flesh under the semi-transparent fabric. Her sleeves dragged on the floor, but at least there was a slit up to her elbow for free movement, and elaborate gold lacing finished the effect.

 

Tauriel felt like a stranger in it. At least no one she knew would have to see her in it; she and the king were riding to Dale alone.

 

“Are you ready, Tauriel?” asked Thranduil, riding up to her on his great elk.

 

“I am, my lord,” she answered. She herself was mounted securely on a golden palomino. Despite the flowing silk, all elven dresses were made to be ridden in.

 

He frowned at her. “You are shivering,” he said. It was still early spring, and chill was in the air. She tried to smile at him through her chattering teeth.

 

“I am not accustomed to wearing silk,” she said. “I find leather and wool are warmer by far.”

 

Thranduil unclasped his own cloak without a word and handed it to her. Tauriel hesitated, but only for a moment. She truly was cold, and the heavy silver fabric was still warm from the heat of his body. She glanced over to thank him and momentarily lost the words.

 

The strangest expression had come over his face as she donned his cloak. It was a look so unexpected, so vulnerable, that for the first time Tauriel wondered if he had ever dreamed of seeing her in his colors. He turned away before she could speak, and she followed on his heels to the human kingdom of Dale.

 

It was not so long a journey, and their mounts were fresh and eager. The day and the exercise of the ride soon warmed her, and Tauriel began to urge her golden mare to greater speeds. She pulled alongside Thranduil’s elk with a challenging little grin. An amused expression playing at the edges of his mouth, he snapped the reins. The elk tossed its great head and began to run, but by that time Tauriel and her mare were already five lengths ahead. Her sleeves and Thranduil’s silver cloak were flapping behind her, and the sun was bright on her face. She trailed laughter behind her like a banner all the way to the gates of the city.

 

Thranduil caught up with her as she slowed, dumbstruck. Gone was the ruined battlefield of three years past. Now, men and women in colorful garments bustled and sang under soaring arches. Cheerful women sold eels, grilled live, out in the open squares. Children climbed up precariously among the copper and silver statues, startling passer-under-by when they swung upside-down from their knees. Pretty girls threw ribbons at the crowds from high balconies. Dogs barked madly; the smell of grilling meat and spiced wine was overwhelming. Hanging gardens overflowed from every rooftop, bright with the glimmers of the first brave growth of spring.

 

“The vigor of mortal man,” said Thranduil. He sounded neither approving nor impressed. Tauriel’s eye recognized dwarfwork in the bronze roofs.

 

“And mortal dwarf,” she added, as they proceeded into the city. Thranduil made no reply.

 

Although the streets of Dale were filled to the brim, a clear path somehow opened before them, humans crowding themselves together to get a better view of the elf-king of Mirkwood. He rode among them looking neither left nor right, as impassive to their gawking and whispers as a wolf to the chirping of crickets. Tauriel, riding at his right hand, could not say the same. She was acutely aware of the gazes upon her. Amid the commotion, she heard a woman whisper that she was the elf-queen, and it was a struggle not to ride back and correct her. It was a relief when they reached the great city hall.

 

They were met by a brightly dressed valet, who bowed deeply.

 

“Your majesty,” he said. “Lady Tauriel. We welcome you to Dale.” A small flurry of stableboys rushed out of the corners to attend them. Thranduil and Tauriel swung smoothly off their mounts.

 

“We are pleased by your courtesy,” said Thranduil.

 

“The coronation will begin at noon. Will you be pleased to take refreshment in your rooms until then, your majesty?”

 

“We shall.” He took Tauriel’s arm upon his as they followed after the valet, her fingers held lightly in his grasp, her hand resting just atop his. It was how he would have escorted his wife, many years ago. Tauriel, startled, resisted the urge to pull away.

 

Even within the richly furnished passageways of the great hall, they drew stares. Tauriel reflected on what they must look like to mortals: an elf-lord and lady dressed in the richest silk, undying, aloof, and untouchable. They had ridden directly out of a cursed forest, or perhaps a story—Tauriel knew full well that Thranduil personally featured in thousands of years of human folklore. They usually served to warn of the terrible wrath of the king of the forest. And she was at his side. What would they think of her if they knew that she had loved a mortal? Considered leaving the ranks of the deathless for the sake of a dwarf? Likely it would make no difference. Tauriel forced these thoughts away.

 

The chambers that had been set aside for them were decorated with the same bright colors that seemed to characterize the entirety of Dale. It was not unlike being inside an enormous flower, thought Tauriel, looking around. The amount of dye used in this room alone would have paid for a significant fraction of the treasure beneath Erebor. Even the curtains were a bright, cheerful yellow. Tauriel drew them aside. It was a fine thing when the clear sky was the least brightly colored thing in the city.

 

Outside, the crowds were singing.

 

_Who slew the dragon from the spire?_

_Who shot the arrow that quenched the fire?_

_It’s his coronation day!_

_Who is the bowman and the builder?_

_Who brought us all throughout the winter?_

_It’s his coronation day!_

_Who…_

 

Tauriel listened in rapt delight. It was not sophisticated, but the joy of thousands of voices in unison had its own beauty. At the end they cheered his name wildly:

_Whose coronation day?_

_Bard! Bard! Bard! Bard!_

 

Thranduil joined her at the window. A servant had come and went, leaving a flagon of wine and a tray of sweetmeats. He listened intently to the song of the people below.

 

“The music of Dale was once a great thing,” he said. “They learned it from the language of birds.”

 

“This is a song of a people who have returned to the home of their fathers,” said Tauriel. She remembered the way Kili had spoken of Erebor. “There is greatness in that.”

 

He hummed, looking contemplative. “Perhaps…”

 

The crowds grew no less ecstatic as the sun rose higher in the sky. Tauriel, Thranduil, and the other honored guests took their places on the steps of the great hall, but no one in the masses had eyes for anyone other than Bard.

 

In his dark blue and silver, the king stood apart from his gaudy subjects. His only embellishments were the silver thrushes embroidered onto his shoulders. Tauriel was struck by the difference between the riverman she had met three years ago and the man who stood before her now. In so few years, he had begun to carry himself like a king; confidence without arrogance, strength without posturing. The vigor of mortal man indeed, she thought. His eldest daughter Sigrid, her eyes shining, lowered the crown on his head. A great cheer went up as he turned to face his subjects, the citizens of the burned and reborn kingdom of Dale.

 

He stepped forward to greet his guests—to her surprise, he came directly to Tauriel, nearly ignoring Thranduil himself.

 

“My lady,” said Bard. In the simple straightforwardness of his gaze, nothing had changed. He took her hands in his. “You saved the lives of my children.”

 

“I—I merely stayed with them until they reached safety,” she demurred, taken aback.

 

“And for that I owe you everything,” he replied. “Whatever our city can offer you, I beg you to make free of it. You will always be welcome in Dale, and in my home.”

 

Belatedly he greeted Thranduil, one king to another.

 

“Your reconstructions are impressive,” commented Thranduil. “I congratulate you.”

 

“None of this would have been possible without your aid.”

 

“I believe I have made clear to you why I gave it.”

 

“It saved our lives nevertheless,” said Bard. His tone made it clear that this was the end of the discussion as far as he was concerned. His heir came and stood by his shoulder. Tauriel blinked. Could it have possibly been only a few years since she had last seen the boy? Bain seemed to have put on at least a foot in height. He gave her a small, shy smile as father and son moved to the next guests, a contingent of dwarves from Erebor, most of whom she did not recognize. And one that she did: Balin gave her a wide smile from around the formidable girth of King Dain.

 

Afterward there was feasting, during which Dain and Thranduil cordially ignored each other. Balin came and gave her glad greetings. She returned them, feeling guilty for no particular reason.

 

“I had hoped to see you here,” he told her, his wrinkled face crinkling with a smile. “Three years is not so long, yet long enough between friends.”

 

Tauriel bowed her head, honored by the word.

 

“I am glad to see you as well,” she said. “How goes life in the kingdom under the mountain?”

 

“It goes well! Although,” he leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. “I think perhaps the last two centuries of wandering have made me restless. I itch to explore new lands.”

 

Tauriel smiled at that. “I wish you great luck in your travels,” she said. “I hope you will think of me if ever you pass through our woods.”

 

“Of course, my dear.” He looked closely at her. “You look…well. Happier, that is.”

 

The last time he had seen her, she had been silent and inconsolable beside Kili’s tomb. That went unsaid.

 

“I am,” she said slowly, struggling. Why did he have to remind her of her grief? In this place, of all places? “I have found great comfort in my return to my home, and my duties. I am sure you find it the same.”

 

His eyes flickered to Thranduil. Even across the hall, surrounded by human courtiers, his gaze was fixed upon Tauriel.

 

Balin smiled at her, sadly this time. “I am sure Kili would be happy for you,” he said, and took his leave of her. Tauriel felt her fingers go numb. Beneath Balin’s kind words had been a dreadful implication. He did not think that she still loved Kili.

 

What could she do? She would not chase him down in front of everyone to assure him of a love that she still could not speak of. She grabbed a cup of wine from a passing server.

 

The wine was not unpalatable, hot and brewed with spices. Tauriel drank deep of her cup.

 

Thranduil was almost brusque as he pushed his way to her.

 

“That dwarf said something to upset you,” he said.

 

“He did no such thing.”

 

“Tauriel—”

 

“I do not wish to discuss it,” she told him stiffly.

 

The night dragged on. There was laughter and dancing and for Tauriel, wine. Guests and subjects alike presented Bard with gifts. The dwarf gave him jewels, of course, fire opals strung onto gold, as well as a lovingly crafted set of shining armor. He promptly presented the necklace to his younger daughter, who beamed with joy, and promised the armor to his son when he grew to manhood. A little girl toddled up to him with a flower, which he took with a solemn expression, promising to preserve and treasure it. The newly founded merchants guild of Dale unrolled an enormous tapestry at his feet, depicting the death of Smaug. In it Bard stood like a hero on the steeple of the bell tower, his shattered bow in his hands, silhouetted against fire and the broken body of the dragon.

 

Last of all was Thranduil, standing before the human king empty-handed.

 

“You have returned to the city of your fathers,” he said. His low, commanding voice filled the hall. “You seek now to resurrect your birthright. There is no man alive that remembers the glory of Dale—” His eyes glinted. “But I do. I would return some of your legacy to you now, as a coronation gift.”

 

He began to sing. The looks on the faces of everyone in the hall made it evident this was the last thing they had expected. It was a song that had not been sung for two centuries at least, a human song—a song of Dale. It was a song of white sails bringing riches from far-off lands, of the endless bounty of green fields beside rivers, of a thousand tongues in a thousand accents talking at once. It was a song of laughing women in bright scarves, of steady defenders in stalwart armor, of the great copper bells that called the fishermen home when the day was done. It was a song of a city everlasting, although mortal men must end; a city that would live forever, into the time of their children, and their children’s children, on and ever on.

 

There was silence after his last note fell. Even the babes in arms had quieted. Old men were crying, Tauriel saw, tears trickling into their beards. The muffled sounds of their weeping threatened to be the only sound in the hall, and then Bard stood and began to clap.

 

It was the drop of rain that began the flood. Applause began and did not stop for a long time. Thranduil took it all in with a cool expression. Tauriel made her way to him. Bard was already there, talking practically nonstop.

 

“Yes, I will send you any singers who remember your songs,” she heard Thranduil say. “You will excuse me, Bard, the hour grows late. I will retire to my rooms.” He turned to her, not seeming surprised to find her at his side. “Will you join me?”

 

They turned together towards the exit. Tauriel was surprised to find herself slightly unsteady. She grasped onto the pillar of his arm for support. She had done this before, she recalled distantly. It was hard to remember when.

 

“That was very kind of you,” she heard herself say as they stepped over the threshold of their room.

 

“Was it?” He was looking at her intently.

 

“Very kind,” she whispered, and reached out and kissed him.

 

His warm lips beneath hers were more intoxicating than all the spiced wine in Dale. Without warning, he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. She felt his hot breath on her neck, setting her skin to buzzing in a way that had nothing to do with the wine she had drunk. Tauriel tore away at his clothes with desperate need, kissing him frantically. Her breath was coming faster with a frenzied urgency. She wanted him inside her, wanted him to kiss her until she could forget, until her heart was whole at last. Tauriel was shaking like a leaf, and Thranduil broke away from her and held her wrists until she was still.

 

“Tauriel,” he said, “Tauriel, you are crying.”

 

She looked into his face. Even through her blurred vision, she could read the open concern written there. She could not lie to him.

 

“Kili died here,” she said.

 

He let go of her wrists immediately. “I should not have brought you to this place,” he said.

 

“No, my lord,” she told him. “I-I thought that I c-could… _hide_ it, that it would not affect me—but my heart has never been my own to command.”

 

“Neither is mine,” said Thranduil. “Yet it belongs to you nonetheless. What would you have me do?”

 

She turned away. She could not bear to look into his face as she said it.

 

“You must know,” she said. “You must know that I can never tell you the same.”

 

It was the first time she had said it out loud. For a long while there was silence, and then his voice spoke behind her, low and measured.

 

“If I could choose to feel differently, I would not. Not for all the jewels under the lonely mountain.” Behind their backs, his hand brushed hers. She felt another tear trickle down her cheek.

 

“Then you are braver than I by far, my lord,” she said, but she allowed her fingers to intertwine with his. Tauriel turned back to him, looking into his face for the pain she knew he must feel. She saw no sign of it. “I cannot believe it does not matter to you. That, that I will never return your feelings. That my heart will always belong to another.”

 

“How could you possibly think I do not care?” The sudden surge of emotion in his voice took her by surprise. “You know my feelings…as I know yours. Can there be anything more to say? To be done? This is how our hearts stand. I am at peace with that.”

 

Tauriel began to speak but he interrupted her, his eyes burning with intensity.

 

“I am older and have seen more of life than you, my dearest. Permit me this wisdom. I have long since left behind my need to be loved. That I can claim to feel what I feel for you is far more than I have a right to. You owe me nothing, Tauriel, nor do I seek to be anything more than whatever you wish me to be.”

 

“I do not understand,” she said shakily. “How can you endure it? How does your heart take the strain? I would die before I hurt you, Thranduil, but being with me must be like a love that dies every day. You could only hate me more and more by the hour.”

 

His throat worked. “I find exactly the opposite to be true,” he said to her. She could hear the struggle to keep his voice even.

 

They reached for each other, sharing a single chaste kiss. She could taste her own tears on her lips. Tauriel pressed her face against his shoulder, as she had done before, years ago. This time she could not say whom she was crying for.

 

“Thranduil,” she said against the warm curve of his neck. “Take me away from here. Take me home.”

 

He kissed her hair. “Of course,” he said. In his voice was all the tenderness in the world. Tauriel felt herself a traitor to it.

 

They snuck out of Bard’s city like a pair of thieves, stealing away under the light of the fattening moon. They rode straight for the forest, only slowing to a walk when they were under the shade of its familiar trees. Tauriel reached her hand out to his. She had been thinking. Her thoughts had been made clearer with the speed and the distance.

 

“Thranduil, I must tell you how I feel,” she said to him. “I…I know it is strange. But then, I cannot understand how you can feel as you do…even, even if what I feel is not love—whatever lies between is real.” She looked up at him. “I would stake my life on that vow.”

 

“I know,” said Thranduil gently, and brought her hand to his lips. The sun was barely waking through the trees, casting golden shadows towards home. The light touched the planes of his face and was trapped between his eyelashes. For a moment her breath caught at his beauty. It lasted for a moment, and then an unfamiliar gleam came into his eyes. He looked…almost…mischievous.  

 

“I do believe that we never finished our contest from before,” he said.

 

“What contest—” Tauriel began to ask, but Thranduil was already gone, racing ahead on his elk. Laughing with incredulous delight, she urged her mare into a gallop down the narrow forest trail. She pulled ahead, and then the elk gave a tremendous bellow and outraced her mare. Tauriel could hear the king’s low laughter drifting back to her as she gave chase. Her golden mare was fleetfooted and brave; neither horse nor rider thought anything of coming neck-to-neck with the king.

 

And that was how the astonished guard found them in front of the palace; a whirlwind of hooves and flowing silk clattering into the main courtyard, the bright spring sun rising above their heads, and the sound of their laughter filling the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I seriously love Dale...
> 
> As ever, my greatest and most sincere thanks to all of you who--ah, you know who you are.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The year is currently TA 2951

For a very brief moment the only sound in the courtyard was the scuffle of feet moving lightly across stone, and then Malfindir lunged forward and half the courtyard rose to their feet, shouting.

 

Tauriel allowed it. This was a demonstration of skill, after all, and the guards might as well enjoy themselves while they learned something.

 

Elanor faced down Malfindir coolly, stepping just out of the range of his long knives, trying to lure him into overbalancing himself. But Malfindir was no fool. He circled instead, driving Elanor backwards around the fighting ring. He was using his enormous height and reach on Elanor, who was likely the slightest of the elves present. Tauriel approved, of course—she always told her guards to use their strengths to their advantage. Elanor’s strengths were less visible, except by watching her eyes. She was cool, she was calculating. And when that failed, she was brutal.

 

As they watched, Malfindir lunged again, trying to trap her against the wall. But Elanor rolled beneath the blade, inside his long reach, and came up stamping on his instep. Even as his leg buckled, her knee came up hard into his solar plexus and he crumpled. Almost as an afterthought, Elanor knelt on his chest and put a knife to his throat.

 

Guards cheered. Tauriel cleared her throat and put out her hand. Copper bits and scripts of debt written in varying degrees of legibility began appearing in it.

 

“What did we learn?” she asked.

 

“Never bet against the captain,” muttered Belegorn, to general laughter.

 

“No,” she said patiently. “Even against a physically superior opponent, patience and cunning can prevail. Those two traits will be your greatest advantages against orcs.”

 

There was a low murmur of agreement around the courtyard. Tauriel crossed over to Malfindir, still lying prone, and gave him a hand up. He wheezed something that might have been thanks.

 

“Captain, it is your turn now, is it not?” Dolorian asked suddenly. She frowned at him. Unfortunately, the rest of the guards quickly caught his drift.

 

“Right! Captain, show us what you can do with those blades!” shouted Mirdanion. A bout of cheering backed him up. Tauriel shifted her stance, feeling the weight of the newly sharpened swords on either side of her hips. Ten years of training had been quite long enough to earn her edges, but now that she had then, she was strangely reticent to show them off.

 

“I don’t think so,” she said.

 

A disappointed chorus sounded.

 

“Come on,” coaxed Dolorian. “You’ve been carrying those around for a decade, can you not give us a demonstration of what they can do?”

 

“She would need an opponent,” said a low voice behind her.

 

In a moment the courtyard had gone quiet; rows of guards falling to their knees where they stood. Tauriel turned and gave her king a small, private smile. He looked glittering-eyed back at her. Even now she was surprised at the warmth of affection that flowed through her. Last night he had kissed every inch of her skin until she was shivering at his touch, and curled his tongue inside of her until she could only moan, breathless and boneless. She had come as soon as he had entered her, and then come again and again as his hips thrust deep against hers. Beneath his silver robes were the red scratches she had left on his shoulders, yet to fade in the morning. She had been so slippery and wet that every thrust felt as if they were losing themselves, or losing their sanity. He had whispered her name as he came, over and over again, a plea, a prayer, a mantra. They had fallen asleep still entangled in each other’s arms. Tauriel was almost certain that none of this was showing on her face.

 

“Alright, boys and girls,” she said, not taking her eyes off Thranduil’s. “It looks like you will be getting that demonstration after all.” The guards, getting warily back to their feet, let out a muted cheer. Almost as one creature, Tauriel and Thranduil drew their swords and began to circle each other.

 

The attack came like a sudden cold wind. She could hear the collective indrawn breath of every guard in the courtyard, but it was distant to her. Tauriel’s world had narrowed to their battle. She could see the same focus in Thranduil’s eyes; she watched them burn for her. His blades were carving silver light in the air, nearly too quick for her eyes to follow. So she did not rely on them, depending instead on honed instinct and intuition, and the multitude of invisible observations that informed her subconscious mind.

 

She met his attacks with one of her own, sinking into a low stance and nipping her swords out towards his ankles. She had expected him to leap back or over them, but instead he matched her, parrying her attack and then immediately flicking a blade at her eyes, driving her back. He advanced on her, one sword held high, one held low, both of them pointing at her face. Gritting her teeth, Tauriel snaked her right blade for his heart. Her attacking sword was batted away with a strength that made her hand go numb even as Thranduil’s other blade came at her throat. One blade attacking, one defending, just as he had taught her. She swiped away the one attack and was met with another and then another. Thranduil was a whirling storm of metal, and Tauriel was only just fast enough to keep up with him. She backed up, step by step. A trickle of sweat made its way down her nose. She was only a few paces from the wall. If she allowed herself to be trapped against the stone, she would be handing him an easy victory. Tauriel desperately tried to maneuver left or right but was met with redoubled ferocity for her efforts.

 

She had to break free. Her eyes flickered towards a small opening to her left and Thranduil shifted his stance, thinking that she might try for it. Within a half-second he had realized the feint, but it was already too late.

 

Calling all her strength into her legs, Tauriel leapt backwards. Landing on the wall itself, she ran along its side, defying gravity through agility alone. As Thranduil’s head turned to follow her, she could see a glimmer of appreciation in his eyes. Tauriel sprang high into the air, curving her body so that her swords were pointed directly at him. Gravity was giving her aid now; she was arcing towards him like a javelin. Thranduil tensed, bringing both blades up to counter her.

 

Their swords clashed in midair, neither one scoring on the other. Twisting like a cat, Tauriel landed in a crouch facing him and immediately arrowed back to the attack. The king looked as cool as he might look in his throne room, not a hair out of place, not a droplet of sweat on his brow. Tauriel longed to smack the serene expression off his face, but he blocked her attack with almost contemptuous ease. But now she was on the offensive, and could practically taste victory in her mouth. She whirled and slashed, now high, now low. Thranduil did not give a single step, although his eyes narrowed in concentration. She saw the coming counterattack in them before he ever moved; that was her one saving grace.

 

His sword whistled above her head as she ducked away. Tauriel circled, panting hard. If she hoped to win this, she would have to take him by surprise. The only problem with that plan, she thought, was that he had taught her everything she knew about sword-fighting. But hadn’t he told her once that she could beat him in a fight?

 

So she lunged forward with all her might, snaking forward her left-hand weapon for his ribs. It was an attack faster than anything she had achieved in practice, but not quite fast enough to reach him. That was fine. That was not what she had in mind in any case.

 

Thranduil’s sword swung out to meet hers, just as she had hoped. But rather than keep the footing she would need to absorb such a powerful blow, Tauriel opted to simply abandon her weapon. In the next moment the fight would be over, one way or the other.

 

Even as his sword swept down on hers, she threw herself into the opposite direction, ducking into a roll. Thranduil’s parry sent her abandoned sword flying; it embedded into the front gate of the courtyard. Mirdanion and Belegorn dived for their lives. Tauriel paid them no mind. The focus of her entire being was Thranduil now. Her roll had carried her behind his back, his swords pointing away from her. Tauriel did not even take the time to rise to her feet. There was no time to. Still on her knees, her sword snapped out for the back of his neck.

 

The next moment she felt a sharp point rest lightly on the soft skin of her throat. Thranduil had been faster. It took her a moment to realize what had happened. She had been right to assume that she would not have long to attack before Thranduil reacted, but she had counted on the time it would take him to whirl around, or at least turn his head. Instead he had used the momentum of his wasted parry to spin the blade in his palm so that he held it backhanded. He had pressed it against her throat without even looking at her.

 

Smiling despite her defeat, Tauriel threw down her blade on the stones with a clatter. The sharp point left the skin of her throat. Thranduil turned to her, extending his hand to her. The guards were stomping and whistling, a more uncouth behavior than she would have thought they would show in front of the king. But Thranduil didn’t seem to be paying them any mind. His eyes were fixed upon hers.

 

“I made a better showing today than usual,” she said to him, still smiling. “Did you try to save face for me in front of my guards?”

 

“I would never insult you so, my dear.” His hand was still lightly clasped upon hers.  Belegorn trotted over with her discarded sword. His eyes moved from her to the king to their linked hands and back to her within a second.  He handed her the sword without a comment.

 

Even as she sheathed the sword, Thranduil bent to retrieve her second blade.

 

“This may seem remarkable,” he began, handing her the sword, “but I did not come here to fight with you.”

 

Tauriel shot him a grin. “Did you have something more strenuous in mind, my lord?” she asked, pitched low so that only the two of them could hear. Amusement and lust flashed together through his eyes.

 

“Nothing so enjoyable. In fact, I came here to speak with you, Captain, on a rather serious matter,” he said. “Will you join me a moment?”

 

“I will,” she said. She scanned the crowd of now chattering guards. There was one who was standing slightly aside, arms crossed, clearly longing to whip some discipline into the group. “Elanor,” Tauriel called. “You are in charge. Keep them busy.”

 

Elanor sprang forward with a razor-sharp grin.

 

“Understood, Captain,” she said, and was answered by good-natured groans.

 

Just through the back gates of the courtyard was the small garden that hugged this wall of the palace. Tauriel and Thranduil strode together among the wild vines and overripe fig trees. Tauriel had long suspected that there were secret paths connecting the palace gardens that only Thranduil knew about. She had never asked, and he had never volunteered that information. The heat of summer wrapped around them both as they walked.

 

“I do not wish to trouble your thoughts,” said Thranduil at last, gazing up at a canopy of green leaves. “But the Royal Guard will be the first to experience danger, and so should be the first to know of it. The men of Gondor grow weak, and can no longer hold back evil, while the men of the east grow ever more bold. I receive disturbing reports of events far to the east. Some form of evil has been stirring and gathering strength, perhaps for centuries.”

 

Tauriel drew in her breath.

 

“The Shadow of Dol Guldur?” she asked.

 

Thranduil turned his austere gaze upon her.

 

“That is precisely what I fear,” he said. “He may be gone from this land, yet his servants remain. As he grows in power, they will become bolder. It may be that a direct attack may come soon.”

 

“We have been seeing spider tracks more often of late,” said Tauriel.

 

“Perhaps because your patrols increasingly venture into territory I have expressly forbidden? No matter,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “I can only command you to be careful.”

 

“Am I not always, my lord?”

 

“Very droll.” He was leading her back to the courtyard now, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. The sun cast shadows on his face. “I have enough worries, Captain.”

 

She tilted her head at the curious tone in his voice.

 

“I know you do, sire,” she said warily, testing.

 

“Do you? I ask then that you not add to them,” said Thranduil. He stopped and turned to her, his hands coming around to circle her waist. His touch was warmer than the heat of the day; she felt it burning her through her leather and wool. Her breath caught. “Promise me, Tauriel.”

 

She looked into his face. For a moment her heart was captured entire by the look in his eyes, as if there was nothing and no one in the world but her. And then her head caught up, and with it, anger.

 

“I will make no such promise,” she said, jerking back from him. “Do you think to manipulate me? Command me as my king, Thranduil, or ask me as my lover, but do not combine the two.”

 

His eyes had grown wide at her reaction, and then narrowed with anger of his own. “I do not wish to command you,” said Thranduil, low and furious. “And I have no delusions of the power my affections hold over you. How am I to bid you to obey me? You and I both know that I would never punish you for your transgressions. I—I only ask that you remain safe, Tauriel. Is that so much that you would deny it from me? Please—” He tripped over the word, unfamiliar on his tongue. “I know you do not love me. But for this one request…this one moment…will you not pretend?”

 

His hand stretched out to her. She did not take it, caught between her still-simmering anger and some emotion she could not name. Her skin prickled. She hated this, hated arguing with Thranduil as if they did not wake up in each other’s arms every morning. But she also could not let him win this particular fight. She turned away.

 

“Tauriel,” he said, his voice bleak, but she strode on without him and pushed through the gate.

 

“Where is the captain?” someone was asking. “I need to speak with her urgently.” It was one of the guards on the noon patrol, returned early. Elanor crossed her arms forbiddingly.

 

“Do not go searching for her,” she warned. “She is talking with the—”

 

Tauriel walked into the courtyard. “Who is looking for me?” she asked. “Why have you returned from patrol so early?” Her argument with Thranduil was lingering in her mouth, making her tone sharp. The guard, picking up on it, snapped to attention, a formality she did not usually require.

 

“Captain!” he said. “Celeneth sent me. The dwarf you told us to keep an eye out for is on the old forest road, we are trailing him from the trees now—”

 

He stopped speaking as he suddenly noticed the king, emerging through the gate from behind Tauriel.

 

There was a long silence during which everyone, including Tauriel, looked from the hapless messenger to the king. Thranduil looked at him, his face like the silence before the storm, and said,

 

“What dwarf?”

 

Every eye now turned to Tauriel.

 

“You recall my report from three years past, my lord,” she said, with a calmness she did not feel. “Balin of Erebor passed through on the old forest road.”

 

“Oh yes,” he said. “I do remember that report. Delivered to me well after the dwarf had already left my realm.”

 

“I thought it prudent to escort him to our borders. After all, he was visiting the halfling Bilbo Baggins, whom you yourself have named elf-friend.”

 

“Then I commend you for your eagerness to fulfill your duty,” said Thanduil. Tauriel did not flinch at the sarcasm. “Is that why you have apparently given orders to waste your patrols searching for a lone dwarf?”

 

The air crackled between them. Tauriel drew a breath. This was the sort of argument that she always lost, and Thranduil knew that very well.

 

“I—I thought perhaps that he might bring us news of our halfling friend,” she improvised. Even to her own ears, it sounded weak. “After all, if Bilbo Baggins requires our assistance, it is surely our duty to know.”

 

Thranduil let the silence stretch out. The guards looked as if they would sooner be anywhere else.

 

“Your reasoning is faultless as always, Captain,” he said finally, heavy irony drenching his voice. “Very well. I will not interfere with his travels. But,” he added, as the courtyard of guards began to breathe again, “I will go with you to meet him.”

 

Tauriel bowed. He must be angrier than she had even guessed, to go personally into the woods. There was a martial light in his eye that brooked no disobedience, no matter how much Tauriel would have liked to argue. Whatever he might say, she was still only his captain when the day was done.

 

“Certainly,” said Tauriel. She turned to the guard from the noon patrol. “You will lead us. Elanor, take over the drills.”

 

Thranduil was as agile in the trees as he was with his swords. She supposed Legolas had inherited his fleetfootedness from somewhere. They spoke stiffly together as they travelled.

 

“Remind me. What did you and this dwarf discuss, three years ago?” he asked her, low.

 

“The selfsame evil that you and I just spoke of. The dwarves of Erebor receive reports as well. He also expressed a desire to reclaim Moria.’

 

They had spoken also of Kili, but Tauriel was not about to tell him that.

 

“Moria,” spat Thranduil. “If that dwarf wants it, he may have it. I would be glad to give him and any number of his kin safe passage to that wretched mountain.”

 

Tauriel set his jaw. “That is generous of you,” she gritted out.

 

“Oh, I believe it to be extremely fitting,” he said silkily. “It occurs to me that I never did send a coronation gift to Ironfoot, even after scores of my elves died winning his accursed mountain for him. This will be a fitting reparation.”

 

It was a statement intentionally tailored to set off her temper. Tauriel knew this, but she felt her ears burn red with anger nonetheless. _Don’t argue_ , she told herself. If she spat out any of the dozen angry retorts that were sitting just behind her tongue, they would soon be yelling at each other for the whole forest to hear. But the anger would not die in her. She could feel it pulsing in her blood like a live thing. Tauriel was so consumed with keeping her rage in check that, for the first time in centuries, her foot slipped off a branch. She stepped forward into empty air.

 

Her fall was halted abruptly. Thranduil had sprung into motion the second she lost her step. He seized her by the waist in midair, pressing her close against him as he landed. She was enveloped in his warmth, solid footing beneath her. But when she looked into his face, and the expression written there, she felt once again unbalanced. Why could he always do that to her?

 

She jerked away from him, nearly losing her balance for a second time. He, too, turned away from her, his expression turning dark. They did not speak until they reached the old forest road.

 

Celeneth and about half of the noon patrol were moving silently through the trees, just as promised, shadowing a lone dwarf. Tauriel and Thranduil descended upon them together. The guards froze where they stood. The shock on their faces said everything about how unusual it was to see the king so far from his halls. Belatedly they began to kneel. Thranduil thoroughly ignored them. Tauriel, following in his wake, hurriedly gestured for them to stand. She wanted them to be ready for whatever Thranduil, in his temper, had in mind.

 

He leapt down to the road, blocking the path before Balin. He was dressed plainly this day, but his crown and his visage was known to everyone in this part of the world. Balin bowed his head, a little stiff-necked.

 

“What business has a dwarf on my road?” Thranduil demanded. Warily, Tauriel came down and stood behind him.

 

“The same business as any other, I should think,” said Balin. The one of his voice was light, but Tauriel could see his shoulders tensing, ready for a fight. “A road is for travelling, or else why have one?”

 

Tauriel could not see Thranduil’s face, but she could see Balin’s hand jump, as if reaching for an axe under his cloak.

 

“Dwarf—” Thranduil began to snarl.

 

“Thranduil—” pleaded Tauriel.

 

They were interrupted by the sound of a hunting horn. Tauriel instantly turned to the sound, as did every guard there. The horn sounded twice more and fell silent. Three sharp blasts; the warning call for spiders. Tauriel turned to Thranduil.

 

“My lord, it is not safe here. There are spiders coming toward the road—”

 

There was another call—one short blast, one long.

 

“And goblins?” she said with disbelief. She unslung her bow, a gift from Bard, sent over in the latest trade shipment. Made of maple and some sort of foreign animal horn, it was so strongly recurved that it was a battle simply to string it, and the draw was heavy enough that she had to use her thumb. But in practice, it had sent an arrow through a target and out the other side. It would do the same for a spider.

 

“Sire, get under the cover of the trees,” she said. “My guards and I will cover you.”

 

“Do not be foolish,” said Thranduil, drawing his blades. “But if the dwarf wishes to retreat, he may.”

 

“I am afraid that the goblin has not yet been born that will make _me_ fear for my life,” said Balin. He had his axe in hand.

 

Tauriel did not have time to curse either of them before the first goblin burst through the bush. Her arrow took it through its open mouth and pinned it to the spider behind it. More came through—Tauriel backed up, steadily firing. Celeneth and her company were barraging the front ranks of the enemy, while in the trees on the other side, the other half of the patrol were driving the spiders and goblins out of the forest and into the open.

 

The rain of arrows were not going to hold back the flood much longer. She holstered her bow in favor of her swords. The guards followed her down from the trees as she charged into the battle. Thranduil was already there, laying waste. Tauriel leapt into the fray by his side.

 

The double swords swept through spiders like a dream. They had hardly more difficulty with shoddy goblin armor. She sliced a spider through the middle of its mouth, mandibles on both sides hanging on grotesquely, and batted aside a goblin machete, taking its owner through the throat in the same smooth action. And then she whirled to take the legs off a spider, and whirled again to gut another goblin. It was hard to be aware of the greater battle beyond her own circle of violence and blood, but she was distantly aware that the elves had the raiding party encircled. They had likely not expected such strong presence in the south, perhaps thinking, or hoping, that the long peace had lulled their senses. Near her, an enormous spider shrieked—a hideous noise—and scuttled toward one of her guards. The creature’s mandibles snapped at his head as he dived away. Tauriel dispatched the goblin she was fighting with a kick and sprinted between the spider and her prey, rolling beneath the slavering jaws and under her belly. Her sword flashed out as she went, gutting the creature entirely down its abdomen. She rolled out the other side, neatly, just as the spider’s legs twitched and collapsed under its own weight.

 

And then Tauriel realized that she had not thought this plan through.

 

When she had rolled beneath the spider, she had emerged into the center of the embattled raiding party. Tauriel found herself surrounded by desperate enemies on all sides, and at her back, a spider carcass. She saw no way out, but shortly had no time to look before she was beset.

 

Most of the spiders were dead or twitching already; the goblins, panicked by the defeat of their allies, pressed about her, wielding wickedly sharp knives. The long reach of her swords kept them at bay for a single bated moment—and then, at some signal in their own tongue, they charged her.

 

Tauriel twisted and slashed desperately. Her double swords were more useful when she had room to move and maneuver, but she had none. She was already backed as far as she could be against the dead spider. Even so, her blades could slice through goblin armor like tissue paper. One would charge in and fall down dead at her feet. But she was running out of time; they were pressing her relentlessly. The last remaining spider took her right-hand blade between its mandibles, forcing Tauriel into a desperate tug-of-war. She saw a knife fly at her; by instinct she swept it out of midair with her other sword. But that gave a waiting goblin the opportunity to come at her directly, his own knife gleaming in his hand. She was slow; she only watched as the blade came closer to her throat.

 

And then suddenly Thranduil was there. He had lost a sword somewhere in the battle, but his single blade was nearly as efficient as two. The sword remaining in his left hand parted the spider’s head from its body. The goblin’s dagger scraped harmlessly against his armored forearm before it, too, fell to Thranduil’s sword.

 

Behind Thranduil were guards. They had finally broken through the last ranks of goblins, and all that remained were the dying. Tauriel panted, relieved that it was over, and wiped goblin blood off her swords on the corpse of the giant spider.

 

“Are all present and accounted for?” she asked.

 

“Aye, Captain,” rasped Celeneth, wiping her brow. “Minor wounds, no spider bites, no major injuries.”

 

Tauriel nodded. “Good.” She managed a smile. “Well done. I do not think they will be troubling the Mirkwood again anytime soon.”

 

“Not if we have anything to say about it,” shouted a voice from the back, and they all cheered. Tauriel turned to the king.

 

“My lord,” she began, and choked off as she noticed his sleeve turning red. Tauriel was at his side before he could say anything, taking his wounded arm in her hands. She was been so stupid. Of course he was not wearing vanbraces like the archers did; he would not have been dressed for battle. The goblin’s dagger had dragged along his forearm, making a long and narrow cut.

 

“Thranduil,” she said urgently. “Let me bind this for you.”

 

“There is no need,” he said. “It is not deep.”

 

Tauriel cursed the stubbornness of the entire male gender.

 

“If you believe that I am going to allow the king to bleed freely on his own soil, you are mistaken. My lord,” she added belatedly.

 

The sharp tone in her voice turned his gaze to her. He seemed surprised by her concern.

 

“If you wish it,” he said finally.

 

Tauriel dug out the roll of bandages that she always kept on her person. Her face furrowed with concentration, she began to wrap his arm. Thranduil kept obligingly still as she did so, as if she had turned him to stone with her touch. She wrapped two layers of bandages and tied off her work with a neat knot. It might not have been necessary after all, as he said—the wound was nothing but a scratch. But even so…

 

As she finished, Tauriel became aware of a profound silence. She looked up and found Thranduil staring down at her, an unguarded expression in his eyes; and beyond him, the guards assembled in a loose semi-circle around them, watching her treat Thranduil’s wound. Tauriel felt her nostrils flare. Did they not have anything better to do? She turned her glare upon them, and they all promptly pretended to be working. Balin alone made eye contact with her. She thought she saw a very small smile bury itself beneath his beard.

 

“Captain, I commend you on your defense of these lands,” he said to her. He seemed extraordinarily cheerful to have been set-upon by goblins and spiders. “I would that we could have met under happier circumstances. Alas, such is life on the road, don’t you think? I will have exciting tales for my cousins in Erebor tonight.”

 

“I can only regret that this attack occurred at all,” said Tauriel. She frowned as a thought occurred to her. “Surely you do not mean to reach Erebor tonight, by yourself?”

 

His eyes crinkled in a smile. “My feet would like to rest by my own fire, however pleasant my journey has been,” he said.

 

“Balin, that is not safe! My lord, we must not allow him to travel the rest of the way alone,” said Tauriel, turning to Thranduil. “It will be dark before he reaches Erebor, and the spiders dare to move freely even in daylight.” She stopped there, not quite daring to push farther. He looked at her a long moment.

 

“Very well,” he said at last. “He will stay the night in our halls.”

 

Balin bowed deeply. “I am grateful for your hospitality,” he said.

 

“I neither desire nor need your gratitude,” snapped Thranduil, a marked chill in his voice. Balin wisely made no answer. Tauriel stepped closer to the king’s side.

 

“I, too, am grateful,” she said to him, her voice pitched low for only their ears. She was rewarded by a slight relaxing of his shoulders.

 

“Tell your guards to ensure our…. _guest_ arrives at our halls with all possible haste,” he said only, and turned away.

 

Tauriel gave the order, confused. “My lord, what about—”

 

She fell silent as Thranduil lifted his head and let out a low, carrying whistle. They all paused, unsure of his intentions. Nothing seemed different in the forest except for the sound of distant crashing in the underbrush, just some wayward forest creature…

 

Tauriel realized it first.

 

“Out of the way!” she barked, and guards threw themselves clear of the path of Thranduil’s mighty elk, which barged into the forest road, snorting. Thranduil leapt smoothly onto its back without aid of halter or harness. Quite seamlessly, he trotted the elk over to Tauriel. Without even thinking about it, she accepted his outreached hand. In a moment she found herself riding behind him, the enormous bulk of the elk surging away beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her guards try to keep up. In vain; Thranduil and Tauriel were already gone, the forest rushing into a green blur. Her arms tightened around Thranduil’s waist. They seemed to be impossibly high off the ground. She was constantly aware of the unfamiliar rhythm of the elk’s stride, the barely controlled wildness of his heavy muscles, as unlike a horse as—as Thranduil himself from a common elf. Tauriel pressed her face into the back of his shoulder. The sight of his blood had made their argument seem so irrelevant.

 

“Thranduil,” she said to him quietly.  Although he did not slow the elk’s mad rush through the forest, she knew he was listening. It never crossed her mind that he might not be. “That which you asked me before…If you ask it of me again, I will give you my promise. But please, do not ask. These are dangerous times, and we live dangerous lives. Do not dishonor me by requiring that I fear for my own life.”

 

“Yet I fear for it, even if you will not,” said Thranduil quietly, not looking at her. Without any discernable signal from him, the elk slowed to a walk.

 

“I know that you fear for the lives of all in this realm,” Tauriel protested. “Do not treat me any differently.”

 

He laughed out loud at that, a rueful sound. “It is too late for that, I am afraid.” His fingers sought hers, closed over where they rested on his waist. “Yet your courage is the very thing I love in you. Very well. I will not ask.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“But someday I might,” he continued. “I wonder, will you remember your promise then?”

 

“Of course I will,” said Tauriel fiercely. “I am no liar. What must I do to prove that to you, Thranduil?”

 

He hesitated. She could feel the tension coming back into his shoulders.

 

“Nothing I would ask of you.”

 

They rode on in silence, passing through dappled sunlight and cool green shadows. Tauriel’s hand came up lightly to his neck.

 

“Thranduil,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

 

She leaned around his shoulder when he turned, taking his face in both hands. Balanced precariously on Thranduil’s now-still elk, she pressed her lips to his in a fierce kiss. His fingers curled tenderly around the curve of her cheek. When their lips parted, she leaned her forehead against his.

 

“Do not doubt me,” she told him.

 

His eyes fluttered closed. His breath was warm on her lips.

 

“Never.”

 

They took the rest of the journey at a leisurely trot. By the time they entered through the gates of the front courtyard the guards had already arrived, although only barely. They had not yet escorted Balin to the guest quarters, and the reason for that was because a strange elf had arrived as well. As guards do, they were staring at him.

 

His colors were not of Mirkwood; bright gold and white, not at all at home in the shadows of these woods. Tauriel and Thranduil dismounted. Tauriel eyed him suspiciously. Thranduil made him a courteous gesture, the blood on his sleeve bright against the dark silver of his robe. Tauriel saw the strange elf’s eyes widen at it, as if he had never seen an elf take a wound before.

 

“Long has it been since one of the Galadhrim were in our woods,” said Thranduil. The elf bowed.

 

“Hail, Thranduil-King. I bring a message from Galadriel, the Lady of Lothlorien,” said the strange elf. He stepped forward and knelt before Thranduil, offering him a folded piece of heavy golden paper. Tauriel felt foreboding flash through her like a lightning strike, setting her hands to shaking. She knew what the letter contained, she realized, knew before Thranduil even read it. He knew it too; she could see it in the heavy reluctance of his fingers in opening the letter. His eyes flickered back and forth down the page. He looked up at them all; Tauriel, Balin, and the guards were waiting for him to speak.

 

His expression was grave, but his voice was as cool as ever.

 

“Sauron the Abomination has returned to Mordor.” The letter crumpled in his fist. “We prepare for war.”

 

Aside from a few muffled gasps from the assembled guards, there was no sound. Heaviness lay upon them all. The axis of the world had tilted; the pendulum of the clock was now the executioner’s blade, ticking them all towards a reckoning. The doom of the world was at hand, and they all in this courtyard would have a part to play in it, however small. Tauriel looked around and realized with a sickening lurch that some of them here present would surely perish in the battle to come.

 

There was a cold feeling in her body, the cold of winter or of death. It was fear, she realized.

 

The left hand of Melkor had risen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All, I deeply apologize for the slight delay in posting this chapter. Work was hellaciously busy this week. I do hope to get back on a chapter/week schedule!
> 
> The bow I gave to Tauriel is a composite bow such as that used by the Mongols, Turks, and Koreans. It's not at all practical for life in the forest...but hey, I wanted to give Tauriel something cool. It's not like my depictions of two-sword combat are accurate either.
> 
> As always, thank you to my readers and commenters. You are my heart, my soul, my silmaril.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The current year is TA 2977

Her hand only inches from the door of Thranduil’s innermost chambers, Tauriel paused at the murmur of voices from inside.

 

Was Thranduil having some sort of private meeting there? That would be the palace guard’s idea of an excellent joke, sending her stumbling into an important meeting without having been announced. She hesitated, wondering whether to go back and wait or to knock. Without really meaning to, she began to listen in on the conversation inside.

 

“…news, all of Mirkwood has been profoundly unsettled,” said a male voice. It was Galion, Thranduil’s manservant. Tauriel relaxed. He was only dressing Thranduil for the day. She prepared to knock, but was arrested by the words he was saying. Her fingers curled back on themselves, irresolute. “The prince’s prolonged absence is only increasing these fears. If you will not call him back to the realm—”

 

“Legolas knows that he may return as soon as he pleases,” said Thranduil. There was a pause.

 

“Then, my lord, there is a second option to set your people at ease.”

 

“Galion,” Thranduil said in mild warning.

 

“My lord,” said Galion. “Forgive the impertinence. I believe the time is right for the Mirkwood to have a queen again.”

 

Out in the antechamber, Tauriel tried not to gasp. Thranduil’s response came swiftly after.

 

“I will not wed Tauriel, so you may leave off with your unsubtle hints,” said the king.

 

“But my lord—she would be a good and fair queen! Why—?” Galion choked himself off, apparently realizing the impertinence of questioning the king too closely. There was a long silence.

 

“Because she does not love me,” said Thranduil. There was an iron weight in every word, and they sank to the bottom of her heart and anchored there. It was true. She did not love him. So why did she feel such grief over hearing him say those words?

 

On both sides of the doors, there was silence. Tauriel waited until she was almost sure her expression was under control. It was harder and harder for her to keep secrets from Thranduil in these days. She knocked.

 

“Enter,” called Thranduil.

 

She slipped inside. Thranduil looked at her. She found that she could not meet his eyes, so she looked at Galion. Galion would not look at her, but he would consider it impertinent to stare at Thranduil, so he looked at the floor. Tauriel desperately wished she could be out on patrol. She forced herself to speak.

 

“A messenger has arrived from Dale, my lord.”

 

“From Bard?” asked Thranduil.

 

Tauriel hesitated.

 

“He does not bear Bard’s personal seal,” she said. “I—I think you should come meet him right away, Thranduil.”

 

The king did not hurry, but it was not so shortly after that he sat himself on his antlered throne. Much of the court idlers, with no more pressing task upon them, were gathered out of curiosity for the human messenger. Tauriel itched to take them all out into the woods and show them what real work was. Her eyes passed over them and turned to the human.

 

He was covered head to toe in black cloth. Seeing it, Tauriel’s heart filled with dread. That was wrong. The people of Dale delighted in bright colors, decking themselves as gaily as their pet songbirds. Black was the color of soot, and the people of Dale had had enough of burning for many lifetimes. The only reason he would be wearing black was if…

 

Thranduil noticed something wrong as well. He leaned forward on his throne.

 

“Well?” he demanded. “What news is there from our ally, Bard the Bowman?”

 

The messenger raised dark eyes to him.

 

“King Bard is dead.”

 

Ripples of shock and whispering ran through the crowd. Tauriel felt as if she had been given a swift push into an icy river. Bard would have approved of the messenger’s forthrightness, she thought dazedly. Thranduil was not dazed. If anything, his gaze turned sharper and colder than ever. His hands clenched on the arms of his throne. The twisting expression on his face made the assembled court back away.

 

“Who slew him?” he demanded.

 

The human messenger looked directly at him, seemingly unafraid of the elf-king. Tauriel saw the unmistakable mark of mourning on his dark skin. Perhaps his own grief made him brave.

 

“No one, your majesty. He died as mortal men die.” He swallowed. “It was peaceful, they say. He was surrounded by his children and grandchildren, and passed away in his sleep.”

 

Thranduil was silent. His expression turned distant. The court waited in silence, trembling on tenterhooks. Tauriel crossed swiftly to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder. When he did not respond or say anything more, Tauriel spoke to the messenger herself.

 

“A peaceful death befits a peaceful man,” she said. “You have our thanks for bringing us this news. Pray carry our sorrow to King Bain.” The words unsettled her even as she spoke them. She remembered Bain as a boy; was it possible that the child she had once saved was now a king? Was the time of mortal men truly so swiftly gone in this world? She did not speak her troubled thoughts aloud. “Do you require shelter for the night, or a fresh horse?” she asked instead.

 

The messenger shook his head.

 

“No, my lady,” he said. “I must return. The…” he hesitated. “The funeral is in three days.” He fumbled in his pouch. “I bring also this letter. It is for the king.”

 

Tauriel glanced at Thranduil, who was still unspeaking and unmoving. “I will take it,” she said. “Safe journeys.”

 

“Thank you, my lady.”

 

The letter was neither marked nor sealed. Tauriel tucked it into a pocket of her belt and nodded for the messenger to go. But even as he turned to leave she hesitated, unsure of what to do next. Had she the right to dismiss the court, as she dearly wanted to? Come to that, it belatedly occurred to her, had she the right to stand by Thranduil’s throne at all? She was suddenly aware of herself in her drab guard uniform, surrounded on all sides by silk and silver. She looked to Galion, who merely looked back with a strange expectation in his face. Her hand touched Thranduil’s arm again, where she knew he wore her cloth against his skin. There would be no help from him. She drew a preparatory breath.

 

Abruptly Thranduil stood from his throne. He stood tall and dark-eyed over the crowd, which took yet another step back.

 

“The court is dismissed,” he growled. Tauriel glanced at him, startled. She had not heard him speak that curtly in years. The courtiers heard it as well; they streamed out of his audience chamber with haste.  Thranduil turned on his heel, ignoring Tauriel, and stalked out the double doors behind his dais. Tauriel matched his stride. She refused to be left behind from him. Not now.

 

“Leave me,” he said, as they reached his chambers.

 

“No.”

 

“Let me be.”

 

“I will not!”

 

He stared at her. The eyes of an angry king bored down on her, lit from within by cold fire. She looked back into them without flinching.

 

“I do not wish for your company, Tauriel.”

 

“Do you think I do not know how you feel?” she inquired. “You would regret my absence as soon as I walked out your door, and then be too proud to call me back. You will wish to talk to someone who has been where you are. Someone who understands this feeling; to grieve for a mortal.”

 

His voice rose like a storm. “I do not grieve,” he snarled. “I feel nothing.” His voice faltered, his expression breaking apart. “I feel nothing,” he said again.

 

“Do not deny it,” said Tauriel fiercely. “Bard was not just an ally to you. You respected him. You liked him. He was as worthy and brave as any of our own kind. Why would you brush off his death like he was nothing to you?”

 

“He _was_ nothing to me!” snapped Thranduil. “He is gone, what of it? He will be replaced by his son, and his son after him. It will all happen within a blink of an eye, Tauriel, believe me. I have seen hundreds of their mortal kings come and go. I have never mourned for a single one.”

 

“But Bard was different. You knew him.”

 

“And? He was a human. The lives of elves are too long to spend mourning for the fleeting lives of mortals.”

 

“And what of mourning for a friend?”

 

“He was no friend of mine,” said Thranduil.

 

“Tell yourself what you like,” she snapped. “But go to his funeral. Perhaps in time you will know what a _fool_ you are being, but in the meantime a man dies only once. And someday, if you ever gain your senses, you will not forgive yourself if you do not allow yourself to grieve and honor him when you had the chance.”

 

Thranduil paused at that. Tauriel dared to feel hope—and then his lips turned up into that smirk that he knew she hated. His eyes raked her coldly.

 

“I believe you have become much too familiar, Captain. Over your station, in fact. You call me a fool? I am not nearly as foolish as you have been. I do not share your inexplicable weakness for these mortals.” He studied her. “Do you think I should cry? Shed a tear for the death of one that would have died nonetheless? Tell me, would my grief—or yours, for that matter—bring back those who were always destined to leave this world? It is futile to mourn for a mortal, Tauriel. And I will not do it.” His voice vibrated with the intensity of his words.

 

Tauriel gasped in true pain. These were the words that would hurt her the most, as Thranduil knew very well. She choked down the tears that came to her eyes. Hesitation entered into his expression, and his smirk began to fade, as if realizing that he may have gone too far. He reached out a hand to her but she slapped it aside.

 

“You do not understand anything but cruelty, do you, Thranduil?” she said to him. She was shaking. She longed to hurt him as he had hurt her. “If it does not cause pain, then it does not matter to you. It is the only way you know to live. Is that why you will not mourn for Bard? Because he has never hurt you? He has only tried to be a faithful and worthy ally to you, and for that you ignore him.” She drew a trembling breath. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that this is why I could never love you?”

 

“Enough!” shouted Thranduil. And there at last on his face was pain, to her satisfaction and horror. She wanted to gloat. She wanted to fall at his feet and apologize. She wanted this day to never have begun. He closed his eyes. “I have heard enough from you, Tauriel,” he whispered harshly. “I know your true opinion of me well enough.”

 

There was barely checked violence in his stride as he swept past her. Tauriel was suddenly gripped by an unshakeable sense of urgency. There was something she had to say to him before it was too late. The last time that she had felt this way, she was watching Kili die. She did not know what she had to say, but she knew that she could not let him leave before she said it.

 

“Wait!” she called after him.

 

Thranduil turned on her, eyes glittering. “Why should I?” he demanded.

 

Her mind went blank.

 

“Well?” snarled the king, waiting.

 

Slowly, she drew the letter out of her pocket.

 

“Will you not even hear his last words?” she asked him.

 

Thranduil stood very still. The tiniest glimpse of uncertainty passed over his face.

 

“It is not from him,” he said. “It does not have his seal.”

 

Tauriel swallowed. “Can you truly believe that he would not have said goodbye to you?”

 

He was silent. Tauriel unfolded the letter. The untidy handwriting she found there was both unmistakable and oddly comforting.

 

“Old friend,” she began, and found she could not continue. She cleared her throat and began again. “Old friend. I write to you now, I believe, for the last time. My body is failing me. Such is the curse of age. I have intentionally never written to you of it—I felt our friendship too strange and uncertain to remind you of our differences, which are so easy to forget when we are words on paper. I regret it now. I feel like a thief, stealing away in the night rather than saying my goodbyes as I should. So I write them now, and hope they will be sufficient.”

 

“I do not regret my life, short as it has been by your standards. To me it has been rich by every measure; I have had three children that have brought me more joy and trouble than I could ever say, I have had the love and satisfaction of my people, and I have had the friendship of all noble races. I have had you, my friend. So I say to you what I have said to all: do not mourn for me, for I do not mourn for myself. I go now to seek what winds of fortune blow beyond death. They say that the fates of our kinds are forever sundered, I know. But they also say that all things are possible at the ending of the world. Perhaps we will see each other again, as we have not often enough in life.”

 

Tauriel bit her lip. “Farewell, oh elf-king. Thank you for the songs, my friend, and for your letters,” she finished softly. “I have treasured them through the years.”

 

Thranduil stared expressionlessly into the silence. Tauriel folded the letter closed with infinite care, and then in a violent surge of anger flung it at his feet.

 

“Do you know how much I would have given,” she asked in a trembling voice, “to have had such a letter from Kili?”

 

She pushed by him before he could make an answer. She blew through the doors of the outer chambers like a swift wind, striding past the startled palace guards without stopping. In the hallways servants and courtiers alike made way for her. She was so full of longing to leave this place that it seemed that her body could not contain it. By the time she reached the gates of the courtyard she was running outright, her hair streaming out behind her. She heard her guards shouting and left them behind. The shadows of the forest only seemed to fuel her speed. There had been spider attacks recently—she knew it was not safe—but she ran faster. Her eyes were blurring with salt water. She was blundering through the undergrowth like a panicked animal. Birds scattered out of her path, calling to each other frantically as they rose into the sky.

 

She stumbled raggedly on, panting, sobbing. The muscles of her legs were burning with pain. Her lungs were aching for air. But even so she would not stop—she could not stop. She ran blindly, leaves and twigs whipping at her face and arms, until her legs crumpled beneath her. Tauriel crawled forward on her hands and knees, driven inexorably forward by a grief she had thought she had long since left behind her. Her hands splashed into wet mud and she stopped dead, looking before her into a wild white river.

 

The Enchanted River surged before her, churning and chuckling like some living creature. In its exuberant plumes of mist she could see terrible shapes; dragons and orcs and stags with burning eyes. There was something strangely soothing about the violent rise and fall of the water. It seemed almost to beckon to her. The river was already half-feral with magic; Tauriel could imagine that it had intelligence, and sympathy. It wanted to help her. It wanted to let her forget. She stretched her hands out towards it. All she would have to do was take a drink, a single sip, and she would be able to erase all memory of this day; simply take away all knowledge the things she had said to Thranduil, and the things that Thranduil had said to her.

 

It was a horrifyingly tempting thought. But it would not solve her pain. How much must she drink to take away thirty years of her grief? How long would she have to drift in the river in order to forget that she had ever been in love with a dwarf named Kili, and that he had left her behind forever?

 

She would have to drown, and that had stopped being an option long ago.

 

Sanity returned. Tauriel shakily backed away from the river’s edge. She did not want to cry. Thranduil was right; none of her tears would bring back the dead, or change the fates of mortals. She was no Luthien, to change the shape of the world with her grief. But tears spilled out of her nonetheless, trickling hotly down her cheeks. Where Kili had gone, she could not hope to follow. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had held a blind, stillborn hope—that the world could be different, that she, who had never deserved pity, could receive it even so from the gods. But not even the Valar could help her now.

 

Bard’s optimism had been touching but misplaced. Elves and mortals were forever sundered by a sea as vast as the universe. It was only cruelty that their waking lives were so entangled. Never again would she walk with Kili, not even in the most distant fields of Valinor. He would always be gone from her.

 

Between them was a parting beyond the ending of the world.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days she spent in the forest, walking in the deep silence of the Mirkwood. When she returned, Thranduil was gone, and the court was in a barely constrained panic. Galion, for one, seemed exceptionally glad to see her return.

 

“My lady—”

 

“Address me as Captain,” she said absently, looking around Thranduil’s empty bedchamber. He made as exasperated sound.

 

“Captain, then. Might I inquire as to where you have been? I have set your guards to looking for you, but—”

 

“That alone would explain why they had not found me.” She could not imagine her guards would look too hard for her on merely the orders of a court flunky. They of all people would understand her need to be alone. “I was patrolling in the woods by myself,” she said to Galion. “That is my prerogative.”

 

Galion bowed to her, thin-lipped.

 

“As for the king—” Tauriel paused. She could not say where this sense of surety was coming from, but she said the words anyway. “He will be back by sundown. The court should prepare to convene tomorrow.”

 

But the king did not return when the sun came down, or even for hours afterward. It was well past midnight, in the darkest part of the night, when Thranduil opened the doors to his chambers. Tauriel roused from his bed. Wordlessly he stripped away his cloak and joined her.

 

Could he sense the apology in her kiss? He returned it as if he had.

 

“You were right,” he murmured against her lips. “I am grateful to have been at his funeral. I will…miss him.”

 

She brought her hands up to his face in the darkness, stroked back his hair. “I never knew that you wrote him letters,” she said.

 

Thranduil hesitated. “We had more to speak on than I could ever have guessed.” He pressed his lips against her neck and inhaled deep of her. His breath caught.

 

“Tauriel,” he said, and nothing more. That was the only thing he needed to say; he had imbued her name with need and love and apology. Tauriel reached out in the darkness and drew him closer to her, to whatever comfort he might find in her arms.

 

They were still asleep late the next morning when a timid knock came at their door. Tauriel, used to waking well before the sun, snapped awake instantly. Thranduil was still sleeping as if dead.

 

Delicately she extricated herself from his embrace. Her guard uniform, although she knew she had neatly folded it away the night before, was nowhere to be seen. The nearest garment was Thranduil’s silver robe, still rumpled where he had left it on the floor last night. She wrapped it around her bare shoulders, covering her nakedness, and opened the door.

 

It was Galion.

 

“Captain,” he said smoothly, as if unsurprised to see her clad in nothing but Thranduil’s robe. “I understand the king returned late last night. I would speak to him, if you please.”

 

Tauriel’s eyes narrowed. “I do not please,” she said, drawing the robe more tightly closed around her. “The king is tired. For what reason do you disturb him?”

 

“I would not do it lightly,” responded Galion, the smallest bit of heat coming into his tone. Tauriel regarded him skeptically. Was this truly the elf who would see her be queen? She found it hard to believe now. “I would not do it at all, save for this urgent matter of state.”

 

“How urgent can it be, that you cannot allow the king to sleep another hour?” she snapped.

 

“Is the Lady of Lothlorien urgent enough for you?” Galion snapped back.

 

Tauriel blinked at him, unexpectedly lost for words.

 

“Are you certain?” asked a quiet voice behind her. “Galadriel, here?”

 

Thranduil had awoken. He propped himself up on his bed, bed-covers sliding half off him, sleep already clearing away from his eyes. Galion looked stricken.

 

“My lord,” he said. “I beg your forgiveness. I—did _not_ intend to disclose that to the captain.”

 

“She wore you down, I suppose. It happens to be one of her many qualities,” said Thranduil drily. Tauriel threw him a wry glance and retreated from the door. Thranduil gestured for Galion to enter.

 

“Tell me what you know,” he said. “Galadriel has not walked in the Woodland Realm for many centuries.”

 

Galion shook his head helplessly.

 

“I only know that she and her retinue were sighted early this morning, my lord, but we have had no word from Lothlorien of this.”

 

“Nor would we have,” said Thranduil. “Galadriel would hardly risk giving our enemies advance warning of her movements. Not when she is the first and only line of protection for her realm.” He glanced at Tauriel. She gave him an acknowledging nod and began to hunt for her clothes.

 

“Make preparations,” he said to Galion. “The captain will provide them safe escort to our halls. We will provide them a welcome that is worthy of Mirkwood. Make it known that there will be feasting and dancing tonight.”

 

Galion bowed deeply and left them. Tauriel gave up on finding her clothes and simply grabbed one of the extra uniforms hanging in the king’s wardrobe that she—or rather, Thranduil—had gotten made for her. These were finer than the ones she normally wore—tougher leather, softer and warmer wool, and touches of fine embroidery on the sleeves. But it was functional, which she appreciated. As she dressed herself she snuck glances at Thranduil, whose pale eyes were dimmed in thought.

 

“Why do you think she has come here?” she asked.

 

“Oh, I am entirely sure it is only to reaffirm the bonds of friendship and loyalty between two neighboring elf-realms,” said Thranduil.

 

Tauriel waited out the sarcasm, patiently doing up her braid.

 

“I do not know,” Thranduil admitted. “She would have sent Celeborn if she only wished to discuss the coming war…but I cannot think why else she would be here.” His tone darkened. “If she intends to question our will to fight in the war to come, I am afraid it will be a very short conversation.”

 

His attention snapped back to the present.

 

“I think it is time for you to go to escort her retinue. It would not do for her to be attacked by any of the dark creatures in our woods.”

 

Tauriel understood the heavy irony in his voice. No spider or orc could possibly harm the lady of the golden wood, not while a ring of power rested on her finger. Her task was not to protect her, but rather to conceal the true extent of the shadow that corrupted their woods. That was their shame to bear, not one for an interloper to see.

 

But Tauriel suspected that there was very little hidden from Galadriel’s gaze. She was sure that those brilliantly blue eyes had noted every shadow and cobweb from beneath the soft edge of her white hood. The forbidding stillness and silence of the wood’s most ancient places was impossible not to notice in any case. For Tauriel it was always and forever her home, but even she could not deny that her forest had gotten ever darker and more dangerous. She could not help but compare it to the stories she had heard about Lothlorien, fairest of the elven realms, and feel oddly defensive.

 

Yet these thoughts, if they even passed through Galadriel’s mind, did not find expression on her face. She entered into the gates of Thranduil’s halls with a serene smile. Thranduil and the highest members of his court were gathered to greet her. The darkness was gathering in now, shadows lengthening and becoming blacker as the sun fled away over the mountains. In the evening gloom Galadriel seemed to glow palely with her own light. It was the light of those who had seen Valinor. In its glow the lines of Thranduil’s face became harsher and more beautiful; the hollow of his cheeks growing ever more pronounced and his eyes glimmering like pale stars in the shadows of his face. Tauriel drew a breath and looked at the other guards. Did they see the king as she did? But they were all entranced by the beauty of the Lady of Lothlorien.

 

Thranduil offered his hand to Galadriel and she accepted it, flowing off her horse with liquid grace. Together they led their combined retinues into the palace.

 

Tauriel had never seen the feasting hall quite like this. Freshly cut flowers adorned every table and plate. Choruses of elves sang welcome to the guests. Lanterns floated on near-invisible wire from the ceiling, but they were hardly necessary. The high open archways along the walls flooded the vast room with moonlight, while lush green growth from the gardens directly outside peeked through curiously, sending curling tendrils spilling across the floor. It made Tauriel smile to see it. The life of the Mirkwood could never be contained by walls.

 

The feasting was planned to continue all throughout the night. The Royal Guard had been drafted to ensure that nothing from the forest would disturb the revelries. Tauriel had organized them into shifts so that they might all at least get some sleep—or more probably, enjoy the festivities for themselves. She could already tell that some of them meant to make the most of this rare visit from their distant cousins—some of her guards were eyeing the Galadhrim with great interest.

 

Tauriel herself would not be on patrol. The king had requested her to be present throughout. He was sitting at the high table with Galadriel, speaking together in low voices. Neither of them were eating. And although Thranduil’s fingers had tightened visibly around the stem of his goblet, he was not drinking. The rising noise of laughter and conversation rose all around the hall, but the two at the high table did not seem to notice. It made Tauriel nervous to see.

 

“Troubled, Captain?” asked Dolorian, leaning on the wall near to her. She started.

 

“Not at all,” she said. “But you will be if you do not get out on patrol soon.”

 

“I am not scheduled until midnight,” he told her smugly.

 

“I can fix that, you know.”

 

“I have a better idea.” His hand closed around hers and pulled. “Dance?”

 

“Valar, no,” said Tauriel, startled by the thought. She looked out onto the couples already dancing. They were smooth and otherworldly in their silk and velvet. “Why would I want to do that?”

 

“Tauriel, you are not paying attention,” said Dolorian impatiently. “I need to catch the eye of those Galadhrim handmaidens. They are not even looking at me right now.”

 

Despite herself, her lips twitched into a smile. “And I can help you with this futile task?”

 

“You can help me demonstrate my skill as a dancer,” he said. “Simply take my word for it, will you not? This will work.”

 

“This will work to make me laugh, perhaps,” said Tauriel, but allowed herself to be yanked into the center of the hall.

 

She knew how to dance, of course—Legolas had taught her a long time ago. It occurred to her belatedly that he had not done so out of whimsy, as he had claimed, but perhaps a genuine desire to dance with her at a function much like this one, with both of them in silken garments. It was a saddening thought.

 

“Look cheerful, Captain, please! I cannot have Galadriel’s handmaidens see how morose you are to be dancing with me.”

 

Tauriel could not help but laugh at Dolorian’s cheek. They swirled in step with the other dancers, who gave them brief, polite glances, and seamlessly made room for them on the floor. Dolorian swept her past the Galadhrim handmaidens, who were indeed very lovely, and gave them all a roguish wink. Tauriel struggled to keep her face straight.

 

But to her surprise, one of them did lay her hand in Dolorian’s when he asked for the honor of the next dance. As he mouthed something celebratory at her, she gave in to the urge and rolled her eyes at his back.

 

She turned around to find that a highborn elf she did not know had been approaching her.

 

“I beg your pardon,” said Tauriel automatically, and stepped out of his way.

 

“Actually, my lady,” said the noble, and Tauriel was so taken aback that she didn’t even correct him, “I was hoping to ask if I may have the honor of the next dance.”

 

“You may,” she said with numb surprise, and accepted his hands in hers as the music began again.

 

She wished she could thank Legolas for his lessons—even if she was not dressed as one, she could at least dance like a highborn elf. The elf—she did not know his name—smiled at her as he spun her around.

 

“So, my lady,” he said, as if simply trying to make conversation. “What do you make of the Galadhrim’s presence here tonight?”

 

After a moment Tauriel returned the smile, although her true instinct was to narrow her eyes at him. “They are certainly here for a purpose,” she said.

 

He nearly stumbled his way through an intricate turn. Her own feet skipped through the steps flawlessly. She thought she recognized this game.

 

“And what is that, my lady?” he asked. Too overeager for her opinion, by far. Did he think she would simply repeat everything the king told her in confidence? She leaned towards him, as if about to whisper to him a great secret. He leaned forward as well, eyes wide with anticipation.

 

“To reinforce the bonds of friendship and loyalty between two neighboring elf-realms, of course,” she said, at a normal volume. She blinked at him. “Did you think something else?”

 

A dawning respect came into his eyes. He nodded at her and said nothing more, and departed her in silence as the dance ended. Unfortunately, his boldness had opened the gates. As the night passed onward, others came and asked her for the honor of a dance, all of whom had the same questions for her. Some of her answers were sharper than others.

 

“It is a pity that those two will not join our festivities,” said one, nodding towards the high table where Thranduil and Galadriel still sat. Tauriel did not follow his gaze. “I wonder what it is they speak of that is so engrossing?”

 

“Oh, I do not know that it needs to be engrossing to distract him from this task,” she said, smiling thinly. “I am sure that he is glad to leave the dancing to others. A king’s pleasure is to delegate his duties.”

 

The courtier paused, not quite sure what to make of that. “Do you think of dancing as a duty, then, my lady?” he asked, testing. Tauriel was suddenly aware that this conversation was a duel, and that she had an opponent who did not understand the true sharpness of her blades, or that she had been taught in them by the king.

 

“We are all at the service of his majesty,” she said, still smiling. “Even now. And they do say that the way an elf dances reveals as much of his nature as the questions he asks.”

 

The courtier’s eyes widened, his smile fading away as if it had never been. She raked her eyes over his face as he stumbled for words. His eyes flicked to the ceiling as if for help, or escape.

 

“We are all, indeed, in the service of the king,” were his careful words at last. “As we are in the service of those who advise him.”

 

The dance came to an end, and Tauriel dropped his hands without pretense of ceremony. “It was a pleasure,” she said coolly, and walked away, leaving him pale behind her. She brusquely rejected the next offer to dance. Was this why Thranduil had ordered her to stay in the feasting hall all night? He must know that she hated these games. It was true that she had relished the look on that courtier’s face when she had insinuated to him that she was gathering information on behalf of the king, but that had been after a long night of questions from nobles who ought to know better than to believe that Thranduil would bed a fool.

 

A sudden instinct turned her head to look at Thranduil. Although he was still speaking to Galadriel, his eyes were fixed firmly on Tauriel. She had a feeling that he had been watching her for some time. Did he guess the nature of the conversations she had been subject to all night? Of course he did. He made the slightest gesture of a hand; a clear summon.

 

Around her, the night was slowly coming to an end. Those who already had or had found partners were splitting away from the main group in pairs. Even Elanor had snuck out into the gardens, blushing, a beautiful Galadhrim handmaiden holding her hand. Dolorian was nowhere to be seen; Tauriel hoped that he had found a Galadhrim maiden of his own. She ascended to the high table, where Thranduil and Galadriel were taking to their feet. He reached out a hand to her arm.

 

“Tauriel,” he said. “I believe you have not yet met with our guest. May I introduce you to Galadriel, Lady of Lothlorien.”

 

She bowed, feeling as though she ought to curtsy instead. “I welcome you to Mirkwood,” she said, raising her gaze. Their eyes met. Tauriel’s hand tightened suddenly around Thranduil’s supporting arm. The strength and power in Galadriel’s eyes seemed to have scoured Tauriel to her very soul. It struck her that she was in the presence of one who had already been ancient when Thranduil was a child.

 

“Your welcome is greatly appreciated,” said she. Tauriel trembled at the solemn musicality of her voice. “As was your escort through the woods. Do not keep so silent next time, Captain. I would have been glad for your conversation.” To her immense relief, her attention turned towards Thranduil. “Shall we retire?” she asked him.

 

“We will have more privacy in the solarium,” said Thranduil. “It is not far. Will you accompany us, Tauriel?”

 

“I will,” said Tauriel. He always asked, even when he already knew the answer. They walked three abreast along the wide corridors. By all rights Thranduil should be escorting Galadriel and Tauriel would be following behind, perhaps carrying a lantern for if they needed light. By all rights, in fact, she should not even have been invited to this meeting between the leaders of two great elven realms. For the first time, she began to wonder what that looked like from the outside. What had those courtiers she had danced with thought of her before tonight? A consort? A mistress? What would they think of her now?

 

“Will you have wine?” asked Thranduil. They had reached the private solarium. Beyond the dome of glass, the moon was slipping away behind the mountains, leaving behind long silver shadows. They gave the king’s face a wild uncertain beauty. Galadriel was untouched by it.

 

“I think not,” she said. She gave a wry smile. “I have heard too much of the dangers of Mirkwood wines.”

 

Thranduil’s eyes glittered with amusement as he nodded, accepting the compliment.

 

“Then I will forgo it as well,” he said. “As I forgo the pleasantries. You will forgive me, I hope, but I am curious to know the true reason of your visit.”

 

“And I have too much respect for you to dissemble,” said Galadriel. “You know why I have come. The war.”

 

“Mirkwood will not yield to the enemy,” said Thranduil swiftly. He seemed ready to be angry. “I have lost too much to give any inch of ground.”

 

“No,” said Galadriel. She looked almost pitying. “You do mistake me. I am not here to question your will to fight. But the battle will come to you, and if you lose, you will lose everything. It may be that you will require my aid.”

 

“So you do not question our will—merely our ability.”

 

“I have seen many possibilities come before me,” said Galadriel. “There are many paths for the future to take…some are darker than others.”

 

Thranduil seemed almost not to hear her.

 

“We are more than capable of defending our own borders,” he said. If anyone else had been facing him, he would have snarled it. “Mirkwood is still a great elven-realm. I do not believe the day will ever come when we need the assistance of another realm to protect ourselves.”

 

“You are in grave danger of underestimating the enemy, Thranduil,” said Galadriel softly.  Tauriel started. She had never heard anyone, other than herself, use his given name without an honorific. “There is a shadow upon your forest. Do not let it into your heart.”

 

His eyes darkened. “My heart is none of your concern,” he said, his tone now only barely remaining within the bounds of civility.

 

“But your defense of your realm is,” said Galadriel. “I wish to discuss the ways in which I can help you.”

 

She stared directly at him as she said it, and Tauriel felt almost as if something silent had passed between them, something that could not be said out loud. Not in her presence, at least. The air had changed, and Tauriel did not know why. Thranduil stood abruptly.

 

“Tauriel,” he said in a tight voice. “Leave us.”

 

She leapt to her feet in protest. “My lord—”

 

“Now, Captain.”

 

Tauriel looked at him. His eyes were locked with Galadriel’s, and he was trembling, his knuckles white. She had never seen him like this before. Galadriel was serene-faced. She did not want to leave him alone with her, not with him so visibly unsettled. But she wanted even less to disobey an order before a foreign head of state, or present a less than united front. Her spine stiff, she bowed to them both.

 

“As you wish it, my lord,” she told him, and stalked out the door. Every muscle was tense with anxiety and annoyance. Her feet took her away from the solarium in long, restless strides.

 

At a junction she paced in circles, uncertain of herself. Should she wait for him here? Or elsewhere? But no, he had made it clear that he wanted her gone. Tauriel picked a direction at random, paced down to the end of that hallway, picked another direction at random, and then another. She cursed to find herself before the doors of the king’s chambers nonetheless, a pair of palace guards regarding her emotionlessly. Spinning on her heel, she walked straight back the way she came, then into a narrow servant’s corridor, down a set of twisting stairs, through an indoor courtyard, down another set of random hallways—

 

This time she found herself in the king’s garden, that same breathtaking, cascading view opening up before her. Tauriel turned her back on it without a thought, looking up instead on the balcony of Thranduil’s chambers above her. He was not there. Defeated, Tauriel stretched out on the cool grass, pressing her hands to her eyes. She had to finally admit it to herself: she was waiting for the king to come find her. Would she ever have thought it would come to this?

 

Tauriel smiled. How strange her life was. Not an hour ago, noble courtiers had vied to manipulate her—or perhaps to gain her favor? It was hard to say. She could ask Thranduil his opinion, and that was yet another oddity: that of all the people in the Mirkwood, Thranduil should be the one she could confide in and trust. Even now she longed for his touch and the low rumble of his voice. Even now worry for him tensed her shoulders, but she knew that would fade away when she could see him again. Her heart beat faster, thinking about it.

 

The moon continued to sink lower in the sky. Soon enough, even from the high vantage point of the palace, it was entirely gone. Through half-lidded eyes Tauriel saw a silhouette appear at a window and jerked fully awake.

 

The figure had gone, but Tauriel knew what she had seen. She scrambled up towards the wall. It would take entirely too long to go back through the palace—she scaled up the stone of the balcony itself. As she leapt over the railing, she found the doors closed off by heavy velvet cloth. Frowning, she let herself through, allowing the curtains to fall closed behind her.

 

Out in the garden, dawn was announcing her presence in the sky, but in Thranduil’s chambers it was utterly dark. For the first time that she could remember, those same heavy curtains were drawn closed over all the windows. Tauriel paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She could make out the distinct silhouette of the king, a dark shadow wearing a dark crown.

 

“My lord?” she said uncertainly. There was something different about him, the way he held himself. The shadow turned to look at her. She could only tell by the movement of the crown on his head.

 

“Here again, Tauriel?” it asked. “Will you berate me now? Or praise me? Tell me the truth, my love, your truth. _Nin meleth_. Do you not know how much I need you?”

 

“I know, Thranduil,” said Tauriel, not moving closer. There was something disjointed in his speech. He stepped towards her, swaying slightly.

 

“Galadriel is no underhanded trickster,” he said, as if continuing a different conversation entirely. “She would not have come here if she did not see danger in our future. But she offered me the choice, a bitter choice. I do not know…I cannot know…if I have made the right one. Or for the right reasons. You…you bring color where there was only black and white. You make my path uneasy.” Another step. “How could I allow myself to love you so much? How could I make this mistake again?”

 

He was drunk, Tauriel realized. Her eyes were growing sharper. She could see the dim outlines of empty bottles on his table. How much had he had, to reach this state? And why would he want to? Anger and fear sparked in her.

 

“What did she say to you?” Tauriel demanded.

 

He laughed hollowly. “Oh, Tauriel. She made a generous offer indeed, more generous than I could ever expect or deserve. Why, she has offered to take this dark and troubled kingdom of Mirkwood under her aegis.”

 

Tauriel shook her head. “I—I do not understand.”

 

His teeth flashed, a knife-edge in the dark. “It is very simple, Tauriel. Mirkwood and Lothlorien would become one vast realm, under the protection of a single ring-bearer. With Nenya protecting our lands, the servants of the enemy could never again cross our borders.” Thranduil laughed again. There was a brittle edge to it that made her skin shiver. “Who can say? Perhaps our leaves would turn as golden as those of Lothlorien, our trees and animals as tame, and songs would once again be written of the beauty of the Woodland Realm. Mirkwood mastered at last. But it would not be my realm. For all this, all I would need to do is bend my knee to her—give up my inheritance and my kingdom, and gain—”

 

Abruptly he was silent. Tauriel stood like a statue, appalled. Thranduil, give up his throne? Galadriel would have been more in the right to ask the stars to give up their light.

 

“She must have known that you would never accept such an offer,” she said angrily.

 

There was a long silence. And then,

 

“I considered it,” said Thranduil.

 

“What?” said Tauriel, profoundly shocked. “How could you even entertain the thought?” She drew closer to him, close enough to see his face in the darkness. His eyes were wet. They looked at her.

 

“I thought of you,” he said brokenly. “I thought of your body, sundered by their heavy iron. I thought of you weighed down by their cold shackles. I would make any bargain, pay any price, if I thought that even a ring of power could stave off the evil at hand.”

 

Tauriel’s mouth turned dry.

 

“Thranduil,” she said. “You cannot say that. You must never trade our forest for one such as me.”

 

“But I would,” he said, low and dark. “And I would count it cheap. What is the value of a kingdom such as this? Bard will never see Dale fall, but I have seen the Greenwood rot from great heights of glory. I would that I were a mortal king, and could die before I ever saw the ruin of my land. The Lady of Lothlorien had the right of it. There is a Shadow here that encroaches daily ever deeper. It is in my heart, Tauriel, and it turns me cold, and you are my one source of light and warmth…”

 

He jerked his head, as if suddenly becoming aware of what he was saying. His stare focused and turned lucid. His speech changed. He looked into Tauriel’s face.

 

“What right have you to hold such power over me? What right have you to take my love and give nothing in return?” His eyes glittered with malice. “I should cast you out. I should leave you for the Shadow to consume.”

 

Tauriel flinched back from him. His words hurt more cruelly than she could have ever imagined. But although his face was cold and intent, his hands were trembling violently. He was lying to her…she hoped.

 

“You do not mean that,” she said to him, not feeling altogether certain of her words. “You would never do such a thing to me.”

 

“Do you think so? How pitiable. I am no elven-king fair and wise,” said Thranduil. His face was changing. “I am Thranduil, scarred and cruel. You know that. Is that not why you will never love me? Do you not know whom you take to bed at night?”

 

His blind white eye, his high cheek seared to the bone, revealed themselves before her. Tauriel stared back into his mismatched visage, her heart pounding like a maddened bird against its cage. Why was he saying these things to her?

 

“Would you stay, then, little daughter of the forest?” The exposed muscles and bone of his face moved grotesquely as he spoke. “I will burn my kingdom for you, and drag you into the Shadow with me. Is that what you wish?”

 

He was trying to drive her away, she realized. Because he would never leave her, even if he wished to. And so he was forcing her hand. Tauriel could not say that he was wrong to, was the worst of it. No one could love as he did with nothing to show for it. She did not love him, and she would not marry him. If she had any kind of remorse, she would leave.

 

But she had shared too much with him to leave now; sorrows and joys and deep, silent kisses. She knew by now the loneliness in Thranduil’s heart. She could not condemn him to that.

 

And…more than that… _she_ wanted to stay. She wanted to be by his side, to face whatever dangers that war brought to them. Her selfishness would not allow her to go. Her hand reached out to him.

 

“Do you think to repulse me?” she asked him. Her lashes left wet marks on her cheeks. “Or frighten me away? Because I will not go.” She leaned forward until their lips were inches apart and then, very deliberately, kissed his burned left cheek. It was he who recoiled from her then.

 

He stared at her as his glamour returned to him and his lies fell away. His visage was bleak.

 

“Tauriel,” he said to her. “What doom lies upon you? What will you do to me?”

 

She could not answer him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Your feedback means a lot to me, so I hope you continue to leave it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The current year is TA 3008. This chapter makes reference to the Tale of Nimrodel and Amroth, which was sung briefly in the book Fellowship of the Ring (I believe). By no means is it required reading, but do check it out on the wikis if you're curious!

Out of the mists one morning came a mortal man to Mirkwood. With him was a creature that, Valar willing, had never been either.

 

Gollum was his name; the creature, that was, not the man, and he shrieked in his chains like something possessed. As Tauriel and the guards all stared in horrified fascination, the man calmly announced that he was Strider, Chieftain of the Dunedain, late companion of Prince Legolas, and he demanded audience with the elven-king.

 

They all paused and looked at Tauriel.

 

“Certainly,” she said, finding her voice. Her eyebrows had grown higher and higher with every word. “Indeed, I believe the king would need to see the pair of you even if you did not demand it.”

 

He smiled at that, the quick, grim smile of a warrior who did not let down his guard unless it was necessary.

 

“Can we gag the creature?” asked Celeneth. “I am sure his wails will bring every spider in the forest scurrying to us directly.”

 

As if to prove her point, Gollum began to wail even louder, throwing his skinny body against the ground. Of course Celeneth was right, but there was something quite pitiable about watching the creature choke on its gag. He reminded her of a rabid abused animal. Some part of her knew she ought to show it kindness, but the rest of her wanted to put it out of its own misery.

 

Strider caught her eye.

 

“Do not bother,” he said to her, as if he could tell what she was thinking. “He is far beyond the reach of our pity.”

 

“You know what this creature is, then?”

 

“A dead thing with skin,” said Strider. He paused. “No, the dead are at peace.” He jerked the chain and Gollum reluctantly began to crawl down the forest path. “I have seen creatures like him before. There is nothing left in his mind but animal cunning and brute obsession.”

 

Tauriel eyed him. There was something in his demeanor that suggested he knew something about both. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but was interrupted by three short blasts of a hunting horn.

 

“Get ready to fight,” she said instead.

 

“I always am,” he answered, unsheathing his sword. There was no boast in it; neither was there any adornment on his simple, deadly blade. His other hand still gripped Gollum’s chain tightly, holding it taut even as the creature redoubled his thrashing attempts to escape. Tauriel drew back her bowstring and waited.

 

Not for long: the hiss of rapid-fire arrows soon filled the air. One of the guards leapt out of the trees into the open air, still firing as he plummeted. He was followed by a spider, which was pierced by three arrows before it even hit the ground.

 

“They’re climbing the trees after the archers,” he said conversationally, rolling to his feet. “Orders?”

 

“Fall back. We have the advantage of weapons, let them come to us.”

 

The guard nodded and blew a single long blast on his horn, holding his other hand over the open end so that it undulated in pitch. The archers in the trees fell back, leaping out of branches, to form a single line with Tauriel and Strider. In a monstrous many-legged wave, the spiders swarmed after them.

 

The arrows of Mirkwood were sure and swift, even through the cover of the trees. Dozens of spiders fell as they closed upon the guards. But the distance was not great, and soon it was time for close combat. Sunlight piercing through the mists flashed off the long daggers of the royal guard like a white fire spreading. The spiders screeched and hesitated in the face of that glare, and that was all the guards needed to press forward. In a few short minutes, the skirmish was over.

 

“Any wounded?” asked Tauriel, after a moment of catching her breath. Beside her, an archer was turning pale.

 

“I think something bit me,” he said in a far-away voice, and then crumpled into a heap on the ground. Tauriel fell to his side, checking his body frantically. She sighed with relief when she found the wound on his shin. It was not a full-blown bite like the one that had nearly killed her; a lucky scratch had sliced through the leather of his boot, which had absorbed most of the venom.

 

“Minor, I think,” she said to Celeneth. “But we should get him to the healers wing right away.”

 

Celeneth nodded, nearly as pale as the archer. A trio of guards had already been strapping together a makeshift litter from forest branches, sacrificing their uniforms and the leather of their bracers to the cause.

 

She turned to Strider. At his feet were the twisted bodies of half a dozen spiders, as well as the skinny, scarred figure of Gollum, huddled behind his leg. He was wiping his blade clean on the leaves.

 

“I’m afraid this will not be a sedate stroll through the forest anymore,” she said. Strider only nodded. His pace, even with Gollum slung unceremoniously over one shoulder, was as swift as that of the royal guard. They made it to the elf-king’s halls just as the archer began to twitch spasmodically in his unconscious state. Healers came running out to meet them as they took the litter carefully inside, his friends still leaning over him anxiously.

 

Tauriel wondered if she had ever looked so helpless.

 

“You were worse,” said Belegorn, following her gaze. “Much worse. We all thought you were going to die, especially after what that seer said. When the king saw you he—” He stopped himself abruptly. “Anyway, you needn’t worry. That one will live.”

 

“What did—” said Tauriel, and then changed her mind. She neither needed nor wanted to hear what Thranduil had done, those many years ago. He was different now. She shook her head clear of these thoughts and turned to Strider, who had been waiting patiently. Gollum was slumped sullenly on the flagstones, drawing horrified glances from passing elves.

 

“I must go give my report to the king,” she said to him. “If you come with me, he may grant you an audience.”

 

Strider merely gave her a slight bow. She could not tell if he was nervous to meet Thranduil. Very few emotions revealed themselves on his face without his consent, she suspected. In some indefinable way, he reminded her of Bard, although the two men were unalike in both appearance and demeanor. What was it about him? She scrutinized his travel-worn face. Did he truly know Legolas?

 

He must have thought that she was waiting for an answer, because he cleared his throat. “I am ready, my lady,” he prompted.

 

“Address me as Captain,” she said automatically. “Or by my name.” She realized belatedly that she had never introduced herself. “Forgive me. I am—”

 

“I know who you are,” said Strider, smiling a little. “You are Tauriel, the flame-haired daughter of the forest. I am pleased to meet you at last.”

 

Tauriel turned into the palace, frowning at him all the while. “Then you have the advantage of me. Strider cannot possibly be your true name.”

 

“Perhaps that is true,” he said. He tugged on Gollum’s chain. “But Strider is what they call me.”

 

“Does Legolas call you that?”

 

Another smile appeared fleetingly in the dark crags of his face. “Sometimes,” he said.

 

They had reached the doors of the throne room before Tauriel could frame another question. She shot him a glance, letting him know that this conversation was not over, and slipped through the doors, leaving him outside for the palace guards to watch.

 

The throne room was empty save for the crowned figure of the king. He was leaning over his maps, as he had taken to doing lately, staring into ink and paper as if he could reshape the world by willing it to change. Tauriel understood the feeling.

 

As he looked up at her footsteps, his eyes unclouded at the sight of her—and then like a wild wind the worry was back again on his face. Tauriel wished she could soothe it away but there was no future in that. The war to come weighed down on them all.

 

“You do not usually report so early. What is wrong?”

 

Tauriel dragged a sleeve across her forehead. Now that she did not have her guards to set an example for, it was possible to realize how tired she really was. She rested a hip against Thranduil’s side, and he extended a robed arm to wrap around her waist.

 

“Another attack,” she admitted. “One guard with a minor injury.”

 

Thranduil was silent. His fingers drummed unconsciously on the side of her waist.

 

“This is retaliation,” he said finally.

 

Tauriel nodded wearily. She already knew that. They had cut down another of the spider’s attempts to bridge the Forest River last night, sending fire arrows across into the nest just to make sure the message was received. Apparently it had been.

 

“Unfortunately for them, they received the worst of the encounter,” said Tauriel with some satisfaction. Thranduil’s brow furrowed as he looked at her, a worried softness in his eyes.

 

“Sometimes, Tauriel, I half-suspect that you are looking forward to the war.”

 

“The war? No, my lord. The chance to drive out these foul beasts from our forest once and for all—yes. I will not deny that.”

 

“Do not speak of it with such eagerness,” he rebuked her. His tone was troubled. “We will lose many, many lives in this fight, for a gain that we should never have had to seek…” His arm tightened around her waist. Tauriel reached out and turned his face towards her.

 

“You made the right choice,” she said fiercely. She searched his eyes for some sign that he knew that. “We would never fight for anyone other than you.”

 

He let out a long, low sigh. “Thank you for these words, Tauriel.” He leaned into her, foreheads coming together. Alone under the shadow of his antlered throne, they embraced, their lips hovering an inch apart. His hands cradled her body to him, the length of his fingers spreading nearly across her entire back. There in his arms was safety and comfort and—

 

He pulled back from her, brushing back a stray lock of her hair as he did so.

 

“I must be back at my business,” he told her regretfully.

 

“Ah,” said Tauriel, remembering. “Conveniently, my lord, I have brought business with me. A Dunedain calling himself Strider.”

 

Thranduil went very still. “Is no one with him?” he asked. He was not quite succeeding in keeping his voice even.

 

“If Legolas were here, my lord, I would tell you,” said Tauriel in a low voice. “I miss him as well. No,” she went on, “but he is not alone. He is accompanied by a…creature. I have never seen anything like, it is fouler than the foulest goblin, more repulsive than any twisted thing made by the Enemy, and yet—almost pitiable…”

 

Thranduil seated himself on his throne, looking pensive.

 

“Very well. Send them in.”

 

If Strider had minded the wait, he gave no signs of it. He entered into the throne room with clear eyes and a high head. His gait was long indeed, but Tauriel suspected that was not why they called him Strider. There was something powerful in his walk, as if every step took him ever purposefully closer to a high doom. The creature Gollum scurried after him on all fours, as if bowed by his presence.

 

Strider came to a halt before the throne and lowered his head to Thranduil. Gollum made gurgling noises behind the gag. There had certainly never been a pair like these two in this throne room before. Thranduil closed his eyes momentarily at the sight of Gollum, as if he would not disdain to look at him. His gaze fixed on Strider.

 

“Your majesty,” he said respectfully.

 

“Strider,” acknowledged Thranduil. To Tauriel’s surprise, there was equal respect in his voice. “I welcome you as a guest to our halls. I understand your journey here was troubled.”

 

“Not at all,” replied he. “Your guards know their work.”

 

Thranduil’s eyes flickered momentarily to Tauriel.

 

“That they do,” he said. “Now tell me, what business brings a Dunedain chieftain to the Mirkwood?”

 

Strider rattled Gollum’s chain. “Your son and I captured this creature wandering through the wilds,” he said. “It was done at the request of Gandalf the Grey.”

  
“Mithrandir,” spat Thranduil. Weary disdain came off him in waves. “I ought to have known that stormcloud had something to do with this. Does he expect me to give aid for all his pet projects?” He raised an eyebrow at Gollum. “Is this one seeking a mountain as well?”

 

“What exactly he is seeking is yet unknown,” said Strider powerfully. “But Mithrandir thinks—and I believe him—that it will become a crucial element if we hope for victory.”

 

Thranduil’s gaze became a hard and glittering thing.

 

“What exactly is Mithrandir after?” he demanded.

 

For the first time, a shadow of unease passed over Strider’s face. “Information,” he answered, reluctantly.

 

“I see that he plays at nobility when it suits him,” said Thranduil. There was something triumphant in the cruel curve of his mouth. Tauriel had to look away from it. The meaning of Mithrandir’s request was quite clear. If the creature would submit to ordinary interrogation or intimidation, he would not have sent it to Thranduil; _scarred and cruel_ , as he had once called himself, and of course she knew that to be true. She did not want to think of that, did not want to believe it, but that was the shape of his nature.

 

Of course he would agree to Mithrandir’s unspoken request. She had known him to do far worse for far less reason—and this reason was the good of the war effort itself. Of course he would agree…Her hand tightened, her left hand, as she remembered the pain of dying, and the pain that her poor guard in the healer’s wing was surely suffering right now. Thranduil had never known that pain, just as she had never understood his taste for cruelty. Perhaps it was futile to protest. Perhaps she had no right to ask against something that could change the course of the war. But she could not allow more suffering for a creature so obviously damaged. Any glance at its protruding ribs and its cowering stance would reveal a life that had already been tortured by the world. Tauriel would not add to its hurts.

 

She opened her mouth to speak, not quite able to lift her eyes off the floor, and found herself cut off.

 

“Inform Mithrandir that his request is denied,” said the king. Tauriel drew in a breath. Her head snapped towards him and found that he had been looking at her. His gaze flickered away. “We will consent to keep him in our prisons, but we will not interrogate the creature.”

 

Strider only bowed his head. Tauriel thought perhaps that he looked relieved. In any case, he did not press an argument. Thranduil raised his voice.

 

“Guards!” he called. The palace guards stationed directly outside filed promptly in through the doors. The sweep of Thranduil’s sleeve indicated Strider. “This mortal is our guest. He has brought a prisoner for our dungeons.” He turned to the man. “You will dine privately with me tonight,” he said to him, rising from his throne. “I wish to hear about my son.”

 

It was a clear dismissal.

 

“I would be pleased to join you,” said Strider, bowing.

 

Thranduil turned to Tauriel after he and the guards had left, raising an eyebrow disdainfully. “Did you truly find that creature worthy of pity? It—”

 

He never finished his sentence, because Tauriel had run into his arms and kissed him. Thranduil held still, as if caught off guard by her passion, and then hesitantly began to kiss her back. His arms came around her and lifted her off the floor. By the time they parted, Tauriel was thoroughly breathless. They were silent, looking at each other.

 

“I was not expecting that,” said Thranduil eventually, and Tauriel burst out laughing. She reached out and smoothed the shoulders of his robes from where she had rumpled them.

 

“Neither was I,” she admitted. Her eyes flicked away from his and back again. She had known had intimately for six decades now, the span of a mortal man’s life, but at that moment she felt inexplicably shy around him, as if he was a new person from the one she had woken up with this morning.

 

“Thank you,” she said, for lack of anything better. She felt vaguely foolish.

 

His eyes softened. “It was not a choice I made,” he told her. “Not if it would have caused you pain.”

 

She wondered if that was the only reason for doing what he had done. She wondered if she cared.

 

The rest of the day passed in a daze of distraction for her. She dismissed her guards from drills early that afternoon. Every one of them had seen action in the past month. The spiders were attacking more and more frequently. It did not matter how many the guards cut down; they bred in huge numbers down in the festering dark. Her guards were tired. None of them had been getting enough sleep. Not even Elanor could muster enough energy to protest.

 

Tauriel did not sleep, as much as she would have liked to. She went down to the dungeons.

 

She remembered this place when it was full of a dozen dwarves; yelling, protesting, grumbling. Now there was only one prisoner; the creature was huddled in the furthest, driest corner of his cell, his face turned to the wall. There were low, unintelligible sounds coming from his corner. They were almost words.

 

“Gollum?” she asked cautiously. The creature stiffened suddenly and curled up further, if that was possible. She noticed a pile of uneaten food scattered on the floor. She frowned. It had to be hungry. She turned to one of the palace guards that had accompanied her.

 

“Has he not eaten anything since he arrived here?”

 

“We gave it bread and water, miss. A bit of meat. It knocked the water over, threw the bread back at us. Chewed up the meat and spat it back out.” The guard shrugged. “If it prefers to starve, that’s its lookout.”

 

“And yours,” said Tauriel sharply. As palace guards, they were not under her authority and technically did not have to refer to her by rank…even so, ‘miss’ had rankled. “This creature is the king’s prisoner. He is not permitted to die until it is suitable for the king to allow it.”

 

She stared at him until he sprang stiffly to attention.

 

“Gollum,” she tried again, more softly. He hunched, rocking on his heels, and then suddenly sprang at her. It bared yellowed teeth at her. The display was more grotesque than intimidating.

 

“ _What_ … _does the she-elf…WANT?_ ” he screeched. Tauriel was unmoved.

 

“Why did you not eat your meat, Gollum?”

 

“ _Meat?...I had no meat…only disgusting breadss._ ” His huge, lambent eyes narrowed at her. “ _Does the she-elf have….meat? Give me_ —”

 

Tauriel tried another tack.

 

“What is meat, Gollum?” she asked.

 

“ _Ssstupid elf. Doess not know meat. Meat iss fressh, wriggling…_ ” He wriggled himself, looking almost joyful. “ _I ssmashes it with rocksss, yes. Then I eatss!_ ” He giggled shrilly to herself. Tauriel withdrew, disgusted.

 

“Bring the prisoner fresh fish for its meals,” she told the guard. “Preferably still alive. Gollum, I will give you your meat,” she said to it. His eyes went huge. Tauriel felt a moment’s hope. Perhaps the creature understood kindness, after all. And then an unpleasant look of cunning came into them.

 

“ _You are tricksing me. You wants to find my precious! I will not tell you! I will not tell you! I will not—!_ ” He trashed against his bars. She could still hear the screams in his ears as she left.

 

Her visit to her wounded guard was fruitless, as the healers refused to let her in through the door.

 

“Will you at least tell him I came?” she asked finally, exasperated. The healer cast her an annoyed look.

 

“We will try to squeeze it in between saving his life,” he said ill-temperedly. “Now please, Captain, excuse me.”

 

With nowhere else to go, Tauriel went through one of the narrow hallways that she knew, through a hidden door, and emerged into one of the gardens.

 

She had found a number of the secret garden paths through the years—not as many as Thranduil knew, of course, but enough that she could make her way to the gardens outside the guest chambers. It was late enough that Thranduil and Strider ought to be done with their dinner by now. She had not joined them: a father had the right to speak concerning his son privately. But she had been Legolas’ friend, and she also had that right.

 

Tauriel was in luck. She had guessed correctly that Strider was not one to stay indoors, not when there was a bright moon shining. His dark head was tilted towards the sky. He was singing softly to the night. Tauriel caught snatches of it:

 

 _Amroth beheld the fading shore_  
_Now low beyond the swell,_  
 _And cursed the faithless ship that bore_  
 _Him far from Nimrodel._  
  
_Of old he was an Elven-king,_  
 _A lord of tree and glen,_  
 _When golden were the boughs in spring_  
 _In fair Lothlórien._  
  
_From helm to sea they saw him leap,_  
 _As arrow from the string,_  
 _And dive into the water deep,_  
 _As mew upon the wing._

 

“Beautifully sung,” she said when he was done. “I can only remember one other who has done the tale as much justice.”

 

Strider turned. He did not seem much surprised by her presence.

 

“I know,” he said, smiling. “I learned the song from him.”

 

“From Legolas?”

 

“He sang it the same night he joined us in the north. I think it reminded him of home.”

 

“Why would it remind him of Mirkwood? It is a tale of Lothlorien.” Something else about that statement struck her as wrong, but she could not quite put a finger on it.

 

“The story of the elven lord and the Sylvan maiden who would not marry him?”

 

Strider’s gaze was a little too discerning. Tauriel looked away from it. The fact that it described her life in more ways than one she did not feel the need to mention.

 

“But she did love him in the end,” she said, almost to herself. “And I…”

 

“And?” Strider asked gently.

 

“To me he is a brother,” she said. She lowered herself to a stone seat. It was engraved with symbols and flourishes from a bygone age. She traced them meaninglessly with a finger. “Do you know how I feel?”

 

“I do.”

 

“I miss him,” she continued, low and unhappily. “Why did he not come back with you? This is a time of great danger, and we need our prince here.”

 

Strider hesitated. “I believe you already know the answer to that, Captain,” he said.

 

Her hand curled into a fist, tapping in futile anger against the stone. “I knew that he had left because of me,” said Tauriel. “But I did not think he would be gone so long.”

 

“I admit that we also did not think he would stay so long, when his father first sent him to me. He needs more time, perhaps.”

 

“I—” A thought struck her.  “You cannot have been there,” she accused. “Legolas went north sixty years ago.”

 

“We Rangers are hardy folk,” said Strider, sounding roughly amused. “I am older than I look.”

 

Tauriel curled her knees up to herself. Anger turned to sadness. “Is that true? How strange then, that you should be so long-lived while others of your kind are gone so quickly. Would that all mortal men were so fortunate,” she said. Strider was silent, waiting. She paused, and then—

 

“I wonder if Legolas ever told you of the burning of Lake-town. There was a boy there—twelve years, scarcely even born—I pulled him out of a fire. The boy became a king—and died, just a year ago. I always meant to visit him. If only time had been less fleeting. Mortal lives run out so soon…”

 

Strider pulled out a pipe from under his dark cloak, joining her on the stone seat.

 

“Whether long or short, it is still only a life, measured by what we put into it,” he said, tamping down his leaf. “Even for the elven-folk, life can so easily be cut short. War is coming, and it will not pay to tarry. Do you love him?” he asked suddenly.

 

Tauriel’s mouth turned dry.

 

“Who?” she asked weakly. Strider only looked at her.

 

“I do not know,” she admitted. Tauriel stared at her hands. They were trembling. “I do not know.”

 

He pulled out a match from another of his pockets and lit the bowl of his pipe, puffing to encourage the flame.

 

“How did you know?” she asked him.

 

He took a long, thoughtful pull of his pipe.

 

“Perhaps you do not realize—when he looks at you,” he began, exhaling smoke with every word, “when the king looks at you, it is written on his face for all the world to see. It is the same with Legolas whenever he speaks of you.”

 

Her throat worked. It was not what she had wanted to hear. She tried to think of something to say.

 

“Does…does he speak of me often, then?” She cursed herself. She certainly did not want to know that. Strider’s voice took on a strange tone, answering.

 

“We have been together many years. We speak of many things.”

 

There was something in the way he said that…she sat up straight with surprise.

 

“You are lovers!” she exclaimed. If it came out accusingly, well, she could not help that. Strider, to her surprise, chuckled.

 

“Too strong a word, Captain, too strong by far. We keep each other warm at night while we long for those whom we love.” His eyes softened, taking in her shock, and he seemed to take pity on her.

 

“I will not tell him about this conversation,” he told her gently.

 

“No,” said Tauriel suddenly. “No, I…I want you to. I want him to know. He does not deserve to have false hope, but—I also wish him to know how badly I miss him. How badly we all miss him.”

 

Strider regarded her silently, his eyes reflecting the gleam of his pipe-flame in the dark.

 

“I will do that for you. And, Captain—” He stood from their seat and bowed to her. “You should decide how you feel sooner rather than late. Do not leave Amroth waiting on the shore. Your king will drown without you.”

 

* * *

 

That night she stood with Kili upon the shores of a magic river. It was and yet was not the Enchanted River, for she had never seen it so serene, so tame. The width of it seemed to stretch out forever, out to where the stars met the horizon. There were no trees on the other side.

 

Kili’s hand was comfortable and warm within hers. Her fingers were slimmer and longer than his, perhaps, but their calluses fit together perfectly as if their scars had shaped them for each other and each other alone. They stood without speaking on the shore, the grass cool beneath their bare feet. The wind blew from the far unseen shore, bringing the scent of strange flowers and memories of things loved and lost. For the first time in centuries, Tauriel remembered the smell of her mother’s perfume.

 

The wind merely filled her with a distant melancholy, but Kili was drawn by it. Finger by finger, his hand loosened from her grip. He took one step and another into the water. Tauriel could do nothing to stop him, even if she wanted to. She watched him go, sinking further into the still and silent river. Just before the waters closed over his head, he turned back to her and smiled. In time the wind brought back to her the warmth of his skin, the smell of his hair. She could not resist its pull. Her feet brought her to the river’s edge. The water was as warm as blood. She scarcely felt it as she waded in deeper.

 

Her dress floated around her knees as she went further into the water, and then around her hips. Just as the water came up around her shoulders, she heard a voice from the riverbank. It was calling her back to the shore.

 

“Tauriel,” it cried out, full of pain and fear. “Tauriel—”

 

She awoke. In the silver-streaked shadows of their bed, Thranduil was saying her name.

 

“Tauriel,” he murmured. “Tauriel…”

 

He was calling out for her in his sleep. She laid a hand on his arm and he quieted, his breathing slowing to a peaceful rise and fall. Already falling back into sleep, she nestled closer to his warmth. A wayward strand of her hair stirred with every one of his exhalations, but she was much too languid and comfortable to stir herself to move it. It seemed like she had been dreaming about something important just a moment ago, but it slipped out of her mind. Surely she would remember in the morning, if it was anything to worry about…

 

Her hand reached out for Thranduil’s, fingers interlacing together amid blankets. Their calluses fit together perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even as I type this, the many incredibly lovely comments on my last chapter go unanswered, possibly (?) because I am the worst. But I do want to thank you all nonetheless. Cranking out an entire chapter per week is incredibly grueling and stressful for me, and your comments really do encourage and inspire. I love hearing what you guys think and feel about anything I write. You have my gratitude for putting in that time.


	9. Chapter 9

Her boots squelched unpleasantly in blood and rotting leaves as she stepped around bodies. Tauriel, her ears still ringing from the screams of dying orcs, ignored it. She was hunting for survivors.

 

The air smothered her as she searched. It was hot, unnaturally hot, as if a fire had been lit beneath the skin of the world. Yet the sunlight, when it reached them, was tepid and cool. Dense dark clouds gathered occasionally above and yet gave no rain. In the depth of midsummer the trees were barren. All the growth that had budded in the spring was now dead and rotting on the ground. Empty spaces marked where used to be green leaves. It was the orc blood, so they said; it soaked into the ground and made it into poison. Tauriel had her own thoughts on the matter. The poison lurking in the Mirkwood was not blood, but something darker, fouler, and altogether harder to wash away.

 

There was an orc still gasping for breath—but his neck was cut open. She could see bubbles of air escaping from his blood, frothing into a foaming mass. His life would be dribbling out soon, and he would not be able to talk in the meantime. Tauriel did not stay to watch it happen. She moved on, leaving him to be put out of his misery by those following her.

 

She came to a halt by an old elm tree, in the shade of which a yellow-eyed orc lay back and snarled. His twisted hand clenched at a gaping wound in his gut; a long jagged line on his leg seeped black blood. But someone had paid the ultimate price for leaving these fatal marks; a guard lay dead at his feet. Even half-trampled into ooze, Tauriel recognized him. It was Malfindir. She had only known him from his distinctive braids: his face was a ruin. Orcish claws had torn through his eyes, rending all down his cheek to rip out his throat. His bright golden hair, of which he had been so proud, was dulled and stiff with blood. Tauriel brushed it back from the bloody mass of his face.

 

She had tried to teach him a lesson about fighting orcs once, she remembered, a long time ago in a distant memory. Apparently he had not learned it well enough. She had known him for centuries. Now she would know him no more.

 

She would feel this later, she knew. For now Tauriel was only aware of a great ringing emptiness, as if she was hollow inside. The echoes of the realization of his death faded away into nothingness. Tauriel spoke to the orc.

 

“If you answer my questions to my satisfaction, I will grant you a swift death,” she said coldly. The orc snarled back at her but looked uncertain. They both knew that his gut wound would take several hours to kill him. In such pain as he would suffer, that time would seem to stretch to several infinities. Tauriel felt no pity for his dilemma. Either way, it was more time than Malfindir had had.

 

“I…will…speak.” His yellow eyes gleamed with fury.

 

“Tell me where the rest of your company is,” she demanded. “We received reports of a large raiding party, five times this number. But we only found you. Where are the rest?”

 

The orc snarled his fangs at her again and began to laugh, hacking and bloody. Every guttural cough of amusement must have caused him immense pain, but he did not stop.

 

“Foolish…elves…” he hacked out. “Lord Sauron…knows all…bow…to…him!”

 

“Where is your company?” Tauriel demanded again, more loudly. Her blood was pounding in her ears; she had to speak above the noise. “Tell me!”

 

The orc only laughed at her. She stared into his blood-stained fangs with a dawning horror.

 

“This is a trick,” said Tauriel, backing away. She looked to the others for support and they stared back at her, wide-eyed. She shook her head frantically as the realization hit her. “This was a distraction.”

 

“Captain?” said Dolorian in confusion. Others, like Elanor, were catching on. She could see it by the horror in their eyes. Tauriel found her voice.

 

“Back to the palace!” she roared. “NOW!”

 

Blood and dirt rose from their heels in their mad rush through the forest. They left the dead behind. They left Malfindir, poor Malfindir, buried in the mud. They left the orc still laughing and waiting to die. They left caution behind too; speed was the only thing that was important now. If they did not arrive in time…if they did not…

 

Tauriel could not bear to think of it. Her hammering heartbeat named her a fool. She had come here with nearly all her strength, thinking to ambush the orc raiding party before they could do any harm. Instead she had been played perfectly by the enemy. The wind whipped at her face like guilt. They ran headlong into it, leaping into the branches for ever greater speed. She caught a glimpse of their shadows moving on the ground; dozens of black shapes throwing themselves across the brave impossible distances between the jagged treetops. Normally she would not encourage such risks—falling might mean death, even for an elf. But failure to be swift would be much, much worse.

 

The ground, far below her, was a blur. Tauriel moved almost blindly among the branches, guided entirely by centuries of experience and instinct. The energy in her legs was gone. Instead she was powered by a ragged, gasping dread. She had left Thranduil at the palace, conferring with his generals over his maps. She had left Thranduil with only the palace guard to protect him. Fear hatched inside of her. It scurried spider-like over her lungs, constricting them. Tauriel gasped for air. She ran.

 

The unnaturally hot wind blew into their faces again. Tauriel had grown to resent it for every breath of speed it stole from them, but this time it brought something more unwelcome: the sound of battle. Mirkwood was already under attack. Without word or signal, every guard in the trees drew their bows and sprang forward.

 

The defenders were backed up to the very steps of the palace, pressed by a raiding party of at least a hundred orcs. Thranduil was among them, laying waste with his swift double swords. There was a cold desperation on his face even as he snapped orders to the palace guard. A fine spray of black blood marred his cheek. The sight of it made Tauriel’s worry and fear boil over into rage. Her arrow loosed from her fingers almost without conscious thought. Nearly a hundred more arrows flew out with hers, momentarily blurring sunlight into shadow, a swift humming rain of death. Orcs staggered to the ground, roaring in pain. Tauriel and her guards redrew and fired. The palace defenders looked up into the trees, their faces filling with hope. A huge orc spun to face this new attack, whirling his mace above his head hugely. A dozen long arrows sprouted from his chest. He looked down at them, savage life draining from his expression, and sank down and died.

 

The raid was routing. Her guards were putting arrow after arrow into orc throats at a punishing rate of fire. She could feel their grim satisfaction, and their fury at being tricked. Tauriel felt it also. That servants of evil should have come this far into Mirkwood’s heart was unbearable. She wanted blood on her swords. She dropped from the trees even as an orc, smaller but bearing an insignia of rank and full armor, gave out a roar like a bull and charged at Thranduil directly.

 

No discipline in the world could have stopped it— a score of palace guards at once and with great courage threw themselves before their king. Tauriel could see his mouth moving, trying to stop it, but the confusion in their lines had already done its damage. Arrows flew into the gap that the palace guard had left, but another orc with a heavy flail won his way past both the arrows and the scattering of guards that tried to stop him. He shouldered open the great main doors with brute force. Two more orcs followed in his path and so did Tauriel, enraged by the intrusion. She could feel the scream building in her throat. Thranduil cried something out to her as she passed him by. It was deafened by the pounding in her ears. She only looked back once, at the top of the stairs, to be sure of his safety. His eyes stabbed at her. Thranduil took a step to her and then stopped, rooted by his duty and the dying battle behind him. Tauriel turned away from him, chasing down the fleeing orcs. This was _her_ duty, and she intended to see it through.

 

The soles of her boots made sharp sounds against the tile as she pummeled down the halls. Her bow was still gripped tightly in one hand, an arrow in the other. She skidded around a corner and found an orc waiting for her. His sword leapt for her chest.

 

Split-second instinct saved her. Dropping to her knees, she arched her back, letting momentum carry her past. The sword swung a bare inch away from her nose. She could see every fleck of rust on the dark pitted surface. She spun to her feet, drew arrow on string, and fired in the same motion. It took the orc through his open mouth. Blood spurted between his teeth. Tauriel did not wait to watch him die. She took to her heels. She could see the remaining two orcs at the end of the hallway. She was catching up.

 

The palace was silent but for the sound of her own breath and the low, constant snarling of the fleeing orcs. The hum of her bowstring added a third note. Tauriel was firing as she ran. She was not as precise as Legolas—her prince would have dropped them both in the space between two heartbeats. Instead Tauriel, shaking slightly from her extended chase, only managed to wing one of the orcs in the shoulder before they leapt down the stairway. Tauriel redoubled her speed. That way led to the dungeons. Shouldering her bow, she chased them down the stairs. The curve of the winding circular stair hid them from her, but she could see their long shadows on the wall and hear the heavy thump of their boots on the stone, infuriatingly near. Her swords were in her hands. She had no conscious memory of having drawn them.

 

The lights on the stair flickered madly as she passed them by, casting crazed dancing shadows of herself on the wall. She heard voices from below; guttural orc voices speaking the common tongue.

 

“Where is the prisoner?” came the demand.

 

“T-t-through there—no, wait! Please!”

 

Tauriel leapt towards the sound. She emerged into torchlight. It flickered off the frightened faces of a dozen servants. They had fled down here for shelter from the battle, thinking they would be safe until their king repelled the intruders. They were weaponless, kneeling on the floor, tears shining on their cheeks. One of the orcs held a trembling maiden with one clawed hand, his swordtip resting on the tender skin of her throat. She turned dark desperate eyes onto Tauriel. The orc saw her and grinned. His companion disappeared into the dark tunnels going into the dungeons. There would be no palace guard there to stop him. Tauriel ground her teeth.

 

“Let her go,” she demanded flatly.

 

The orc chuckled, an evil, crackling sound. “I think not. She will be our safe passage out of these woods. Unless you wish for this one to die slowly.”

 

The maiden trembled. She was one of the kitchen maids, Tauriel recalled. Her name was Ewien. Malfindir had been enamored of her lemon cakes and, they had always suspected, with her as well.

 

“I will allow no harm to fall on you,” she said to her gently, and then narrowed her eyes at the orc holding her.

 

“You will die,” she told him. “This I swear.”

 

He bared his teeth at her.

 

“There are two of us, she-elf.”

 

“I have a sword for each of you.”

 

Some measure of trepidation entered into his small boarlike eyes, less for her words than for the hard, sure tone in her voice. Tauriel advanced on him slowly, swordtips low to the ground.

 

“Think you that a servant of evil can threaten the life of an elf and walk free?” she inquired. “She is under the king’s protection and mine. The penalty for touching her is death.”

 

Another slow, deliberate step. The orc stood as if rooted. She stared him down, nearly snarling herself.

 

“I will offer you something you do not deserve. Mercy. Let her go now and I will be content with only keeping you prisoner. I will spare your wasted life.”

 

The orc’s clawed hand twitched, indecisive.

 

“Do you wish to live?” Tauriel asked him. “Then let her go!”

 

A horn blew. Not an elf-horn—the animal that had produced this horn had been tortured and deformed, surely, for the noise was high and grating, with an edge on it that rang unpleasantly in her ears.

 

The orc snarled something in the Black Speech, his porcine eyes gleaming with triumph. The second orc burst back into the room, causing the servants to cower back once again. In one hand he held the creature Gollum by its skinny neck. The other brought a twisting black horn to his lips to blow again.

 

In that moment several things happened.

 

Gollum writhed in the orc’s grasp and bit down hard on the underside of the wrist. The call of the horn cut off as the orc howled in pain. The orc holding Ewien hostage growled and turned his attention, and the tip of his sword, towards Gollum. Ewien ducked away from him with a desperate gasp and Tauriel, who had been waiting for such a moment as this, threw her sword.

 

It cleaved through the orc’s skull neatly, splitting the distance between the orc’s eyes. He looked, in dying, almost surprised. Tauriel could not think why. She had warned him, after all.

 

Without hesitating for even a moment, she leapt and struck out at the other orc. It growled, scrambling away, and then came back at her with flail in hand. Tauriel leapt back from the blow. They circled each other. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the creature Gollum slink back into the dark tunnels. That was fine. There was no escape for him there. Later, when this was done, she could go and find him at her leisure. She was more concerned with the dozen servants she had to keep alive in the present time.

 

The orc roared and swung a massive blow at her, the spiked iron ball of his weapon becoming a black and iron-grey blur in her vision. Without thinking, Tauriel parried it. The chain wrapped fully once around her sword and held. Tauriel, yanking it back, found that it would not move. Her skin went cold.

 

Across from her, the orc laughed. He swept his arm back, nearly pulling Tauriel off her feet. She stumbled, rolled, came up still holding onto her entangled weapon. She did not dare let go: to do so would at once leave her weaponless and give him free range. As long as she held onto the other end of the chain, the orc could not swing his weapon to full advantage.  

 

It was a sinuous unlikely dance. She ducked in as close to the orc as she dared, slashing at his sides with what length of her blade remained useable to her. The orc roared in outrage and pulled at their entangled weapon, once again pulling Tauriel off her feet and into the air. She hung on grimly, tucking in her knees to better control her flight. She landed only barely on her feet, but she had no time to regain her balance. At once Tauriel dove between the orc’s legs, spun around his opposite foot, and drove the sword into the back of his knee as deeply as she could.

 

The orc let out a shattering scream and, just as Tauriel had hoped, jerked his weapon.

 

The violent motion only dug the blade in deeper. Howling in blind pain, the orc pulled again with animal strength. This time the sword dragged free, leaving a bloody black gash in its wake. His tendon was a snapped and useless string. His leg collapsed in on itself like water. But when the orc came down, Tauriel was beneath him, slow in scrambling away. From her vantage point on the floor, the orc was as tall and inexorable as a mountain.

 

“My lady!” called Ewien. Tauriel managed to glance toward the sound and saw something bright, silver, speeding towards her through the air. Her hand came up without conscious thought and caught it. Her sword. Twisting like a cat, she brought it up just as the orc’s weight fell upon her. She felt the jolt of impact in both arms as the sword pierced his armor, and then only the smooth sickening slide of metal cutting through flesh. The orc fell heavily, dead.

 

His corpse was a choking weight on top of her. She struggled for breath, tasting foulness and iron. Many hands appeared in her vision, and a voice in her ear shouting for them to push on three, and the weight was off of her. Tauriel rolled to her knees, spitting out blood.

 

“It’s not mine,” she managed to say to murmurs of concern.

 

“Lady Tauriel,” said Ewien.

 

“Call me Captain,” said Tauriel automatically. She wiped blood from her eyes and turned to look at her. There was terror and concern in the kitchen maid’s face. It was reflected on each of the dozen servants clustered behind her. Wordlessly, Ewien untied her apron from around her waist. Tauriel held still as she cleaned the blood off her face.

 

“Thank you,” she said when the maid was done. Tauriel felt utterly weary.

 

“Rather, I thank you,” said Ewien in a soft voice. “My lady—”

 

A sudden noise drew Tauriel’s attention away. At first Tauriel wasn’t sure what she was seeing. A movement had caused the torchlight to flicker, just slightly. A spiderlike shape skittered in and out of the moving shadows and then, suddenly, burst into full motion: a death-grey creature with jutting ribs.

 

“Gollum!” she shouted.

 

The creature screeched in fright, having been sighted, and threw itself forward on all fours. It slipped through the small crowd of servants and fled up the stairs. Tauriel surged to her feet, overbalanced and fell. She was up again on unsteady legs before anyone could stop her. Their voices rang behind her and then faded, blocked by the heavy stone walls of the spiral stair. Gollum was given speed by fear and the taste of freedom. Tauriel was weighed down with weariness. She emerged in the hallway to find that he was all the way on the other side, making for the front hall. Sucking air into her lungs, Tauriel followed after.

 

By the time her exhausted legs carried her to the great front doors, the creature was nowhere to be seen. Instead she nearly collided with Thranduil, who had been striding purposefully into the palace, his face set like stone. A small measure of relief came into his expression as she stumbled into his arms. His hands came up and steadied her.

 

“Tauriel. I was looking for you,” he said. “Are you unhurt?”

 

“My lord,” she said to him, single-minded with exhaustion. “I need horses and trackers.”

 

His grip tightened around her arms.

 

“Tauriel,” he said again. She could hear the restraint in his voice cracking. “Please, tell me if you are unhurt. You are covered in blood.”

 

She blinked, realizing for the first time what she must look like. Her armor was still dripping in the blood of the orc she had killed down in the dungeons. “None of it mine,” she said, smiling a little to reassure him. Her hand came up and touched his face, leaving a small smear of blood on his cheek. Quickly, she told him what had transpired down in the basements.

 

“But the creature escaped, and I ought to have stopped it. If I do not fix my mistake soon, I do not believe we will ever recapture him. The Enemy wants the creature as well.” Her foot tapped, impatient to be gone. “I would not guess at why.”

 

“Nor would I,” said Thranduil. His eyes took in every inch of her, as if not quite believing she was truly unhurt. “But there will be others tracking the creature. The orcs that we fought here quit the battle as soon as they heard the black horn blow, as if acting upon a signal. Not many of them survived to flee. But those that did will have regrouped.”

 

“All the more reason I must go now,” said Tauriel. She began to pull away from him, turning to look for her guards. Almost as if by reflex, Thranduil’s arm shot out and grabbed hers. The sudden violence of the motion turned her startled attention back to him. His eyes were dark with—

 

Tauriel did not like to name the emotion, so unfamiliar on Thranduil’s face. But it was fear. It faded from his eyes as he paused, mastering himself.

 

“It need not be you,” he said after a moment.

 

Tauriel took his hands in his.

 

“You know it has to be. Do I ask you to remain behind while others risk their lives?”

 

He _could_ ask it of her, Tauriel remembered suddenly. She had made a promise to him, and she was honor-bound to keep it, however loath she might be to do so. Why had she ever made it in the first place? But it had seemed so terribly important to him at the time, and Tauriel found herself willing to say it if only to give him some peace of mind. She knew by his silence that he was also thinking about that promise.

 

“Will you return soon?” he asked finally instead. Tauriel let out a long sigh of relief.

 

“A week,” she told him, squeezing his hands in hers.

 

But she did not return in a week, or even two. It was well over a month before she and her guards stepped foot in the Mirkwood again. Tauriel and ten of her best trackers had ridden hard on the creature’s trail, following it west out of the forest to the edge of the great river Anduin. They followed it across the old ford, urging their horses into the knee-deep water. The first attack came there, but it was far from the last. Tauriel and her guards were fighting orcs nearly all the way down the length of the Anduin. The servants of Sauron hungered to capture the creature as much as Tauriel herself did. What the implications of that were, Tauriel did not like to imagine.

 

By the time the last of the orcs finally lay dead beside their fire, the trail was nowhere to be found, lost somewhere between the fighting, the distance, and the creature’s own guile.

 

Elanor and three others went east, Celeneth and her three trackers went west. Tauriel, Heledir, and Emliniel backtracked north, all trying to find the creature’s tracks again, but he had altogether vanished into empty air.

 

Elanor rejoined them after two days, arriving at their campsite in the night. Tauriel stood, beckoning Elanor, and led her upstream from where they had been resting. The waters of the great river rushed by in the darkness.

 

“Any signs?” asked Tauriel quietly.

 

“None that we could find,” said Elanor. “No tracks nor signs of his presence. But I thought perhaps one more familiar with the forest here would know. So—”

 

The sudden silence between them told her everything.

 

“You spoke to Hadril,” said Tauriel flatly. She had nearly forgotten that she had exiled her here to keep watch over the silent and grey ruins of Dol Guldur. Tauriel kept her expression still. “And? Has she seen any signs of the creature?”

 

“None. But—” she hesitated. “She did wish to give you a message. A personal one.”

 

“Need I tell you? I do not wish to hear it.” She turned away from her, watching the swift passage of the river. In the darkness beneath the overcast sky she could not even see the trees on the other side. It reminded her of something that she could not quite recall. Behind her, she could hear Elanor shifting her weight.

 

“If that is all, you may leave,” Tauriel said.

 

“She wanted you to know how remorseful she is,” said Elanor in a sudden rush of words. “Hadril says that she begs your forgiveness, Captain. She is—sorry.”

 

Tauriel opened her left hand, closed it. Some days she could still feel the old wound.

 

“Sorry?” she snapped. “Then she should not have attempted my life.” _Or for such a reason_ , added her treasonous heart.

 

“You do not even believe that,” Elanor cried out. “I was there. I saw her face after you fell. It was by no means a purposeful shot, no matter what story she has concocted for herself in her guilt. You knew that, or why else did you spare her life?”

 

Tauriel made a low, dangerous noise in her throat. She did not wish to hear this argument. “This conversation is over,” she said. When she walked away, Elanor did not follow. Her words rang in her ears nonetheless, keeping her awake well into the night.

 

The next morning Celeneth returned with similar lack of luck. The trail was cold.

 

Tauriel paced and cursed herself. Had not Mithrandir himself told them that the knowledge inside the creature’s head was the key to winning the war? Had they now lost that advantage forever?

 

A dawning realization opened up inside her, so huge that she momentarily felt vertigo. Because of her, they had not tortured Gollum’s secrets out of him. Because of her, the creature had been permitted to escape. If they lost the war, it would be…

 

Despite the sickening pit in her stomach, Tauriel did not keep them searching fruitlessly. They need must return to the king—but she did make one single detour, far to the north of the elf-king’s halls.

 

“Gereth,” she demanded, calling furiously into the woods by her shack. “I would see you, seer! Witch! Madwoman!”

 

“Taurîs…” whispered a voice.

 

“Do not call me that,” snarled Tauriel, turning towards the sound. “Where are you? Show yourself. I want you to give me answers!”

 

“Your answers will come to you,” said Gereth, emerging from the shadow of a sprawling chestnut tree. Her pale eyes glittered madly. “I have told you. You will find them—”

 

“In the face of death? Do not mock me,” spat Tauriel. She could not keep the buzz of anger from her voice. Around them, guards shifted uncomfortably. They were not used to seeing her lose her temper like this. “I have seen death. I am soaking in it, and I am no closer to the clarity I need. I know you have the gift of foresight. Tell me how we might win the war.”

 

Gereth cocked her head, staring at her like a bird. “The winning of the war is out of your hands,” said the seer.

 

“Then why did you save my life?” demanded Tauriel. “Why did you speak those words to me? If you have fore-knowledge that would save the life of even a single elf, you must speak it!”

 

Her lip curled. “You ask the wrong questions. Leave me in peace, Taurîs.” The seer turned back into the shadows of the woods.

 

“Do not call me that!” cried Tauriel, lunging forward. She was checked by Elanor’s hand on her shoulder.

 

“Please, Captain,” she said hesitantly. “We should go. Leave her to her madness.”

 

Tauriel panted, exhaling frustration. She shook Elanor’s hand off her shoulder. Turning on her heel, she flung herself onto her horse without a word. The guards followed behind her in grim uneasy silence.

 

Thranduil, when she returned, was ensconced with his generals in his throne room.

 

“No, do not disturb them,” she said as the palace guard raised his fist to knock on the door. “I have no great good news to bring in any case. Tell him—” Tauriel rubbed her eyes, coming to realize her tiredness. “Just tell him I have arrived. He will know where to find me.”

 

Her feet dragged with every step through the palace, fatigue catching her up as surely as gravity. She was tired enough, by the time she reached the doors of Thranduil’s chambers, that she nearly did not notice how the palace guards snapped to attention before her. Alone in the king’s room, she stripped away her blood-stained armor and uniform, leaving it piecemeal on the floor. Someone—perhaps Galion—had run a bath in Thranduil’s personal washroom. Tauriel tested the water with her fingers. It was hot enough to have been freshly drawn.

 

Tauriel could not quite summon enough energy to wonder at it. The aches in her muscles seemed to float away in the hot water as easily as the blood and dirt. She drowsed in the bath until the water turned cool. Thranduil still had not returned. Tauriel put on a fresh uniform and sat, drying her hair, on top of the bed they shared.

 

She had dismissed the ten guards that had been with her to their beds, but the rest of the royal guard would be training at this moment. Perhaps she could join them, the better to assess their skills. Or she could find Dolorian and have him report to her. Tauriel had been gone more than a month, surely there was something she ought to be informed of. Tauriel slipped sideways, resting her head on the pillow. Just for a second. In a moment she would go down to the courtyard—

 

She woke many hours later to find that night had fallen. Rousing bleary-eyed, a slight weight cascaded off her shoulders. She gathered it up in her hands. The sight of Thranduil’s silver cloak, gleaming in her grasp like starlit water, brought her to full wakefulness. Tauriel twisted about on the bed. On the other end of the room was Thranduil, sitting bare-chested at his desk, working by the muted light of the moon.

 

Gathering the cloak more securely around her shoulders, she padded over to his side. He wore, as always, a blue cloth around his left arm.

 

“You could have awoken me,” she told him, laying a kiss on his temple.

 

He leaned into her kiss but did not look up.

 

“I assumed that you needed your rest. You must have been very tired indeed, to mistakenly tarry a month when you had promised a week.”

 

His voice was a little too even. Tauriel drew back from him and stared.

 

“Are you angry?” she asked him. “You know that I did not intend to make you wait.”

 

The stillness of his expression betrayed nothing. “No,” he said. “You have never intended it.” He folded the paper before him, set it aside, selected another.

 

“Thranduil,” she said. “Look at me. Please.”

 

Reluctantly, he did so. She stared into the depths of his eyes, blue like a winter sky without clouds.

 

“I _am_ sorry,” she said. She remembered how easily she had dismissed the same words earlier and swallowed. “But you know that it could not have been otherwise. How could I return when there was still even the least hope of his capture?”

 

“I know,” said Thranduil, low. There was a rasp of something that could almost have been anger. “Your logic is irrefutable. Your duty is clear to me. But logic and duty have nothing to do with how I feel about you.” He turned away from her. “I do not wish to fight about this.”

 

She reached out and took him by the shoulders, turning him back towards her.

 

“Nor do I,” she said, a sudden desperation coming over her. “I only wish to hear you say that you are not angry with me.”

 

His gaze softened. “I could never be angry at you,” he said. He took her hands in his and brought them to his lips.

 

“Not for that,” she said. “Thranduil—” It spilled out of her. “We will never regain the information that Gollum knew. You know what Strider told us—Mithrandir himself believed that Gollum’s knowledge was the winning of the war. If not for me—” she looked down. “What if my failures have cost us this war?”

 

Tauriel felt the weight of Thranduil’s regard on her for a long moment.

 

“The winning of the war is out of our hands,” said the king. Tauriel’s head snapped up at the familiar words. He looked weary. “The most we can do is to hope to keep the Mirkwood safe.”

 

“And yet,” she said unhappily, “was that not our part to play? To keep the creature locked away and to pry what secrets he knew out of his mind?”

 

“There is nothing you could have done differently,” said Thranduil. “Nor would you have. Tauriel, I would not have you doubt yourself, for I do not doubt you.”

 

“But I—“ began Tauriel, and stopped. As always, her king’s eyes were a little too incisive.

 

“What is it?”

 

“But I have failed you so many times,” she whispered. Catching her breath was suddenly a struggle. They flashed through her mind; her arrow at his throat, his son led astray, his orders betrayed, his heart broken. Accusations he had not deserved. Love that she had never returned.

 

“You are wrong,” said Thranduil decisively. Something secret moved in his eyes. “You have never failed me.” His grasp tightened around her fingers. Tauriel could not face that ready forgiveness.

 

“I wonder,” she said haltingly. “Are those the words of my king….or my lover?”

 

His hands drew away. “They are one and the same, Tauriel,” he said. There was a small chill in his voice. “If you ask whether my feelings for you sway my judgment, then you already know the answer. Of course they do. There are very few things that I love, and I cannot easily give them up.” His eyes were dark. “It is a weakness of mine.”

 

“You mean that I am your weakness,” said Tauriel.

 

The king looked at her and hesitated. “Yes,” he said.

 

She broke away from his stare and paced.

 

“Then, then I should leave. I should go where I cannot sway your judgement with my foolishness. I—“

 

“ _No_ ,” said Thranduil, leaping to his feet. His voice vibrated with his intensity. Despite the warmth, the skin of his naked chest was shivering slightly. “Tauriel, I have great need for you here.”

 

Her feet dragged to a stop. They faced each other. He was illuminated by the faint moonlight pouring itself in through the open window, so very still that he might have been a statue, an apparition, a dream. Not something real. Not something that was flesh and blood and heat. There was not a crown on his head, but he held his head as if it still bore its weight. The dim moon played cruel tricks on his face, throwing shadows across his cheeks and eyes so that he looked half-drowned. He looked at her like she was his last hope of dry land.

 

“As a king,” she asked again, “or as a lover? Do not tell me they are the same.” Her heart was pounding wildly. She could feel the rush of it in her fingers, like adrenaline, or vertigo. She waited for his answer.

 

His throat worked.

 

“However you would have me,” he said at last, with brutal honesty.

 

The statement lay between them like a sword. Tauriel was afraid to wield it and yet afraid to let it cut her. The naked longing in his gaze was painful to look at. She swallowed hard and said,

 

“Give me an order, then, my lord.”

 

He nodded, slowly, and looked away through the window at the still and faintly starlit garden. Tauriel wondered if he was thinking of the kiss they had shared there. His voice, when it came, was distant and calm.

 

“I will need you to arrange for hunting parties,” he said, seating himself again at his desk.

 

This took Tauriel by surprise.

 

“Hunting?” she asked. “Why—?”

 

“I am raising the armies,” he said in answer, turning his attention to the parchment. “A thousand have already answered the call. Another three thousand will arrive by months end. In two more months four thousand more shall be mustered.”

 

“Eight thousand?” exclaimed Tauriel, diverted. “That is the entirety of our forces. You have called them all?”

 

Thranduil made elegant characters on the parchment, seemingly unperturbed, although a darkness glimmered in his eyes. “There would be no purpose in holding them back. This will be a war like no other. It is as Galadriel said. If we lose, we will lose everything.”

 

Mirkwood had marched to Erebor with just over a thousand soldiers. Tauriel could not imagine that carnage eightfold.

 

“They will be leaving farms and livelihoods to come and fight,” continued Thranduil. “Their families will come with them, and they are welcome in our halls. But that is many mouths to feed, enduring many months of hard training. We will need supplies to sustain them. It will not be wise to dip too deeply into our stockpiles. This spring has been harsh. There will be no harvest this year.” His face grew drawn, deep shadows spreading beneath his eyes. “I do not know how I am meant to feed my people, Tauriel,” said the king. “You have never seen an elf starve, but I have. It is a monstrous sight.”

 

Tauriel floundered. “I will run out supply lines,” she offered. “There is still good hunting in the north. We will strip the forest empty, but we will survive.” Her hand found its way to his shoulder. Privately she wondered how she was meant to hunt for eight thousand soldiers and their families. But she did not voice her doubts aloud. She would have to find a way.

 

“Good,” he said. His shoulder had tensed beneath her hand. Tauriel froze, wondering whether to draw it away, and then he relaxed into her touch. “Good. And on the morrow, I will be sending courtiers to Rivendell, there to meet my son. I will need you to assign a patrol to give them escort.”

 

“I—” Tauriel began.

 

“You will stay here and rest,” said Thranduil with unaccustomed ferocity. “You cannot have slept the night through in over a month. Send another. Consider that an order if you wish.”

 

She bowed her head. “If you wish it, my lord.”

 

“I do,” he said, not looking up from his work. Tauriel peered over his shoulder at it.

 

_…to this letter. If I have regrets as a father, chief among them must be that I had not taught you more of war, but I have loved too well the peace we had, if only for your sake. I lost my own father in the last great war—_

 

She looked away, regretting the intrusion.

 

“You cannot have slept either,” said Tauriel eventually. “Will you not come to bed? The war will not start in the night.”

 

“In that you are wrong. The war is already among us. It enters our halls. It marks us for death, and paints fear into our eyes.” Thranduil paused to dip his quill into an inkwell. He continued to write, as serene as if his words were not chilling her to the bone. “It makes an enemy out of time, which has always been our friend. And in the end, it will silence us, unless we speak our hearts now.”

 

In the silence after his words, the scratch of his quill slowed and stopped. His gaze found hers and softened.

 

“I would not have you share my fears,” he said eventually. “Go. Sleep. I will join you presently.”

 

Yet all through the night she heard the scratching of his quill in her dreams, writing out the words she dared not say. They took on physical form, the words, tumbling and jostling against each other, and took up residence in her heart. They filled it up until there was no room left at all. Her heart was shriveled and broken from misuse, and shortly it began to overflow. She was choking on all the words she had never said, their jagged black edges cutting open her throat. She woke, gasping, just before the dawn.

 

Tauriel looked about the empty room, still trembling from dreams that made no sense. She was quite alone. Looking to her side, the other half of the bed was smooth and undisturbed. Thranduil was nowhere to be seen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. I've been more busy at work and I came down with a nasty virus that made concentrating almost literally painful for me. I hope the end result is worth it! Things are about to get real. I really hope to have Chapter 10 up on a regular schedule next week, but please forgive me if I don't. I'm working on it, promise. In the meantime, if you ever want to message me, I'm boldlaughter on tumblr. I hope we can chat! I love hearing from you guys. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments. They make me really happy.


	10. Chapter 10

Before her in the blighted forest staggered the exile, leaving blood in her wake. She stumbled and fell to her hands and knees, crawling to her with black arrows coming out of her back like broken wings. Tauriel was at her side before even realizing she was in motion.

 

“H-Hadril?” she whispered, and the elf looked up at her with eyes that were swiftly going blind.

 

“Orcs,” she gasped out. “From Dol Guldur. Ten, ten…”

 

“Ten thousand?” said Tauriel swiftly. “Please, don’t nod. Don’t move. We’ll take you to the healers, you will live, Hadril, you will…”

 

She swallowed and could say no more. It was not in her nature to tell lies, and her words were becoming more untrue with every slowing heartbeat. Hadril only looked at her with all the trust in the world.

 

“Captain,” she managed. “I am sorry. I have always been…sorry. Pl…please…tell me…”

 

“You are forgiven,” said Tauriel softly. A moment later she touched closed the eyelids of the body in her arms. There was one thing more to do, although she hated to do it. Hadril was—had been—a good guard. She would not have gotten herself shot without bringing back important information. Methodically, Tauriel began to search her body. She finally found what she sought in the inner lining of her jerkin; the scroll was still warm with the memory of her body heat. Fighting down her revulsion, she rolled it open and stared at its contents, committing details to her mind without comprehending any of it.

 

She turned to a guard. “Get this to the king right away,” she told him.

 

He took it but did not leave. “Uh, Captain, you are…” He gestured helplessly at his own cheeks. She sharpened her glare.

 

“Did you not hear my order?” she snapped.

 

Dirt rose from his heels as he rushed away. When he was gone she pressed a hand to her cheek and found it wet. She inspected the fat teardrop rolling on her fingertip and shook it off. None of the guards had ever seen her cry, she supposed.

 

She addressed the rest of the patrol, not bothering to wipe her eyes.

 

“Wipe away all traces of our presence here, and do it quickly. We must report back to the king.”

 

“Are you just going to leave her body here?” demanded Dolorian, looking sickened.

 

“Yes,” said Tauriel. The word cracked in her throat. “When orc scouts come here following her trail of blood, they must not know that she reached us. It must appear to them that she died alone, friendless, without having delivered her message.” She clenched her left hand until it felt numb. The elves of the patrol looked revolted but none of them, it seemed, quite dared defy her with open tears in her eyes. She looked down at the body at her feet. Her soft blonde hair was in a rough, matted braid, the kind that no elf would wear willingly. Without friends to help put it up in the intricate braids she had preferred, Hadril had done the best she could by herself, over the course of many years.

 

They left her body behind her to be discovered by orcs, exiled even in death. She was small and crumpled among the curled, desiccated leaves, just another dead thing in Mirkwood.

 

If her guards had been revolted at her choice to leave Hadril’s body, Thranduil’s generals were not. The four of them only nodded, as if they had expected nothing less. They were warriors, of course, and knew much of honor—they knew more of survival. Thranduil himself said nothing, his face a dim light in the shadows of his chair. He gestured for the generals to continue their discussion. Tauriel looked away from him.

 

“Can this information be trusted?” asked one general, peering over the scroll intently.

 

“One of my guards died to bring it to us,” said Tauriel, her back stiff with affront. There was a snarl fighting its way out of her throat. She could not tell if it was directed at the generals, the orcs, or herself. She managed to hold her tongue. The general, if he heard any hint of her feeling in her voice, showed no sign of it. Lines appeared on his ageless face like orderly marching columns. He spoke quietly, as if to himself:

 

“Ten thousand from Dol Guldur, thirty thousand Easterlings…” he trailed off. He did not have to say it aloud: if the scrawled notes on the scroll were anywhere near to accurate, Mirkwood was outnumbered five to one. The realization left a heavy silence, each of the four generals standing with their heads bowed, thinking perhaps of the glory to be won in defeat. Tauriel drifted through the silence to more closely inspect the scroll on the table.

 

She had noticed before that it was a map, borders and rivers superimposed by Hadril’s tense, inelegant script, speaking tersely of troop movements and preparations. Although places were not marked, Tauriel recognized it as she would have the face of her own mother. It was a map of Mirkwood, but with Dol Guldur placed at its center. Crude arrows representing troop movements radiated from it like a corona. They seemed strangely darker and bolder than the rest of Hadril’s notes, as if they had been carved into the map by a heavier hand, less sure of how to hold a quill, almost as if…Tauriel took in a sharp breath. It was not her imagination—the troop movements had been made by a different hand entirely, an orc hand. Hadril had not only spied upon the movements of Dol Guldur. She had broken into the dread citadel itself and stolen information off an orc general’s desk.

 

It was as good as courting death, and Hadril had done it for her. For Tauriel. Because she had not forgiven her for a crime she had never intended to commit.

 

Bile rose up in her throat like guilt. She looked again at the map, this time noting purposefully the marks made by an orc hand. Three enormous black crosses swept down from the north and east towards Mirkwood, there to meet the ten red legions of orcs from the south, trapping them from three directions against the Anduin. On the map the black line of their march seemed so sweeping, so inexorable…

 

“Generals,” she said into the silence. “The line of march of the Easterlings takes them directly through Dale without interruption.” She leaned past the nearest general to trace the black line with her finger. “It seems that they do not anticipate resistance from the peoples of Dale and Erebor.”

 

“They are not wrong to,” said one of the generals sharply. “Their kingdoms were reborn scarcely a mortal man’s lifetime ago. They will fold like paper before a host of this size.”

 

That was a great exaggeration of the span of a mortal man’s life, as she knew bitterly well. The memory of Bard and his children moved her to reply.

 

“I have seen Dale,” said Tauriel fiercely. “I have seen how it has renewed itself. The walls are rebuilt. The people are many and strong, and they arm themselves with Dwarvish steel. They will fight willingly to defend a homeland they once thought lost to them. If they can hold the Easterlings—”

 

“You would depend on mortals to hold an army at our back?” asked another general. She vaguely recalled him—they had danced together the night that the Galadhrim had come to Mirkwood. His name was Thorphen. “Truly?”

 

“I would,” replied Tauriel. “We do not have much more choice in the matter, in any case.”

 

“Of course we have a choice,” said another. Her expression was wry. “We could be overrun and die valiantly. Thorphen, the captain is right. Men have proven their worth in the past. We may well win victory by entrusting them now.”

 

“I, too, remember the days of the valor of mortal men, Merilin,” replied a dark-haired elf. “And they belong to memory. Their time of glory was thousands of years ago. The men of Dale are a shadow of what they were. Some among us—” he glanced at Tauriel, “perhaps do not know how they have faded. But I for one would not trust those children with an army at our back.”

 

“And I do not see what else we can do, Tuilindor,” said Merilin. “You know very well that we cannot fight two fronts against armies of this size.”

 

Thorphen spoke. “If Dale could perhaps slow the advance of the Easterlings, that alone would at least wreck their coordinated advance. I do not say they could hold them forever, but it would give us time to meet the forces from Dol Guldur in battle before sweeping back to meet the Easterlings.”

 

“If,” said the fourth general sourly.

 

“They will hold,” Tauriel told him. “Erebor is the strongest fortress in this part of the world, and they will give aid to Dale.”

 

He sneered. “Who could say what dwarves would or would not do? If they know of loyalty, it is new to me. Are you so assured because you have had it whispered to you by your dwarf lover—”

 

Tauriel opened her mouth before she could consider what might come out of it. But her words were cut away by the rustling of heavy silk. Thranduil had stood from his shadowy chair and into the light. His palm slammed on the table. Everyone except for Tauriel flinched.

 

“Hold your tongue, Dulindir, or I will have it cut out,” said the king with deadly deliberate softness. They were the first words he had spoken since she had entered the room. Dulindir’s face went bloodlessly pale. Tauriel took deep breaths. No one else in the room dared to move.

 

After a frozen moment Thranduil continued. They could all still hear the rage in his voice, although he had attempted to mask it beneath cool indifference.

 

“We will send word to Dale and Erebor. Any time they can give us will mean fewer elven lives sacrificed.”

 

They hesitated. No one dared look at Dulindir.

 

“Agreed, my lord,” said Merilin after a moment, and murmurs of agreement followed from the others. Dulindir, wisely, said nothing. Tauriel also said nothing, nor did she look at Thranduil aside from her startled glance when first he spoke.

 

Gradually the meeting continued, in subdued voices that grew more animated as the generals argued over tactics and strategy.

 

“Now that we know they are coming, we ought to be harrying them,” Merilin was saying. Tauriel was only half paying attention. Most of her concentration was going towards studiously trying not to glance towards Thranduil. “We have the greater speed and stealth. We can waylay their armies all the way through the forest. It will slow them, break their morale—”

 

“Put our troops at risk,” added Thorphen. “Reveal our strength and numbers—”

 

“To my mind, that is better than waiting for them to reach us,” said Tuilindor. “We have been given the gift of information, thanks to the bravery of Captain Tauriel’s guards—” he nodded in her direction, and Tauriel forced herself to full attentiveness, “and we ought not waste it. They will not be expecting a pre-emptive strike.”

 

“They will not,” agreed Thorphen, “because it is a rather foolish thing to do. An ambush with a smaller force will buy us nothing.”

 

“Nothing except to choose our preferred mode of battle,” argued Merilin, “rather than allowing our enemy to do so for us.”

 

“Perhaps you have not been paying attention,” said Dulindir, who appeared to have recovered. “Our little forest constitutes a very small part of the enemy’s attention. Dol Guldur is sending forty thousand orcs to Lothlorien.” All eyes turned back to the map, and the many red lines streaming west, running like blood down to the golden wood. “Do you not think that could change at a moment’s notice? If we reveal our strength too soon, or if Dol Guldur decides to seize an easier target than the lady of Lothlorien, a manageable foe turns into five times that number. We must not draw eyes down upon us, at least until Lothlorien has given them a beating they cannot recover from.”

 

“And we are meant to accomplish this…how?” asked Tuilindor, frowning as he contemplated the map. “We cannot let them simply march into our realm.”

 

“Why not?” answered Dulindir. “Let them come to the Forest River and dither over getting their feet wet. All of us here know that those that serve Sauron loathe the crossing of moving water. Why risk the lives of our troops when we can simply allow the enemy to batter itself to pieces against our allies?”

 

Tuilindor continued to frown, but Merilin, to Tauriel’s horror, began to nod slowly. “The river _has_ been our shield in the past,” she conceded. “And they will open themselves up to attack if they wish to ford it.”

 

“Far less risky than over-playing our hand,” put in Thorphen.

 

“Risk?” snapped Tauriel, unable to hold back any longer. “Risk means nothing. There are no more hands to be dealt. If we lose this battle, we will lose everything. And if we make these mincing plans in this narrow room like a pack of cowards, we will surely lose this battle. Mirkwood cannot withstand a siege. Our strengths come from the forest and the trees, not the river—and if any of you understood that, or walked beneath the green canopy more often, you would know that it has not rained in months. Generals, the river runs low. Even if it is too deep still for orcish tastes, the spiders have been practicing the bridging of the river for the last seven decades. They _will_ cross our river, and we will not be able to stop them. Let us not speak of risking lives! We fight for all our lives now. There is not a single soldier in your armies that is afraid to die.”

 

The generals narrowed their eyes at her. “Spoken like a young elf indeed, that you are so ready to throw away your life,” said Tuilindor.

 

“Perhaps you are grown too old, if you treasure yours so,” said Tauriel.

 

“That they are willing to lay down their lives does not mean that we ought to ask it of them recklessly,” said Merilin in mild reproof. “Yet it is true that we must not insult their honor as if they were to be sheltered like children instead of treated as warriors. Is it true that the river can no longer protect us?”

 

“General,” answered Tauriel, subdued, “I have seen it with my own eyes. It is lower than this time last year by the height of a man.”

 

This news silenced them. Tauriel, although she had not truly meant the barb, had been right. None of the generals had been out into the forest proper for some time.

 

“You can guess my thoughts on the matter,” said Merilin. “If our natural defenses have truly been so sorely weakened, then we cannot allow to come north. If we could trap them against the Mountains of Mirkwood…”

 

Arguing broke out again. This time Tauriel did not participate. The tide of the debate was turning: Mirkwood was marching south to meet its foe. She was content with that. Patiently she waited, arms folded behind her back, as the arguing softened and grew less. The generals bowed their heads together over the map, hammering out details and plans. Thranduil, who knew the forest better than even Tauriel, made occasional suggestions. She found herself sneaking glances at him. If he returned them, she did not see it.

 

“Have you reached an accord?” he asked at last.

 

“I believe we have, my lord,” answered Thorphen.

 

“Then go to your troops and ready them. If we hope to intercept their march, we must start very soon indeed.” Thranduil stood, locking eyes with Tauriel. The shock of his gaze resonated down in her toes. He said,

 

“When will you know more of the enemy movements?”

 

“On the morrow,” she heard herself reply.

 

“Then we may have to move as early as that. Tell the troops. There will be no training tonight. Tonight they must prepare to go to war.” His words were directed at his generals, but his eyes did not move from hers. They pinned her heart to the floor. The generals bowed and cleared away, and Tauriel and Thranduil were left alone in the room. He held his hand out to her.

 

“Will you walk with me?” he asked.

 

She placed her hand into his. The familiar scratch of his calluses against hers was shockingly comforting. They had not been alone together in months. She had been away for days at a time, hunting, once returning so exhausted that she and her guards had curled up asleep in the stables with the horses. His meetings with his generals and courtiers lasted well into the night. She sometimes woke to find only the warm memory of him in his bed. Rarely did their paths cross these days. The war kept them too busy.

 

But then, that was not the whole truth.

 

They walked together in silence through the echoing halls. Even on this route, where they would normally be alone, servants and soldiers passed hurriedly through, delivering supplies or messages. They bowed deeply to Thranduil as they passed. Many of their faces were known to Tauriel, and to those she nodded or gave a word of greeting. Ewien, carrying a hamper of bread down the hallway with her head down, gasped when she nearly ran into the two of them. She curtsied low, wobbling slightly on her feet with the weight of the hamper. Tauriel reached out a hand to steady her.

 

“In such a rush?” she teased. “Surely even your cakes can wait.” Deftly disentangling her fingers from Thranduil’s, she plucked the hamper from the maid’s hip. She inhaled deeply, expecting the sweet familiar fragrance of freshly baked lemon cake. But no, she realized, of course there would not have been any lemons this year, not with the drought—and this was not a scent she knew. Tauriel recognized something almost like honey, but not quite: almost like the clean smell of dew on spring buds, but again not quite. She smelled it and thought of warmth and laughter.

 

“Ewien, what is this?” she asked, smiling. “It smells wonderful.” Her hand twitched toward the cloth covering the hamper. Ewien squeaked.

 

“It is not yet ready, my lady,” she said, snatching it back. Her hands clenched on the hamper, pale. Her eyes flickered between Tauriel and Thranduil, alternatively frightened and yet strangely expectant. Thranduil’s expression revealed nothing.

 

“Finish it, then,” he said, taking Tauriel’s hesitant hand in his again. Ewien seemed to breathe again.

 

“My lord,” she said, bobbing up and down. “My lady.” She struck out past them, bouncing as she trotted away. Tauriel watched her go, bewildered. She looked a question at Thranduil, but he did not return her gaze. Ewien, who had been brave with an orc holding a sword at her throat, had been acting so uncharacteristically jumpy around Tauriel. And even more strangely, Thranduil seemed to know why. Since when did a king know of the doings of a kitchen maid?

 

Tauriel opened her mouth to ask as they set off down the hallway, but looking sideways at Thranduil’s pensive stare, his hollow cheeks, she closed it again. They swept together past the palace guards and into the royal chambers. He began to speak as soon as the doors closed behind them.

 

“You do not have to tell me what an impetuous thing I have done,” he said. “Believe me, I would not have antagonized one of my generals on the eve of battle.”

 

It took her a moment to remember. Dulindir. “He was the one who antagonized you,” Tauriel countered. “And me, for that matter. If he likes to hold a grudge over it, let him hold it against both of us.”

 

A small smile appeared at that. “Perhaps I should not be so glad to hear you say such a thing,” he remarked. “I would not have you antagonize him either. Yet how else should I feel? You have been avoiding me, Tauriel.”

 

She did not try to deny it, although her feet took her restlessly about the room.  “I thought it would be for the best,” she said. “I have my duty and—and you have yours. I did not wish to interfere with that, especially since—”

 

The memory of their last conversation hung in the air between them.

 

“And I am not entirely alone in that, my lord,” she said, low. “For you have been avoiding me too.”

 

“Yet here we are.”

 

“I—” She tried to explain herself and could not. She began again. “This afternoon, my lord, one of my guards died in my arms. With her last breath she begged my forgiveness. She—” her voice trembled. “Hadril died because of me. I sent her away and she died for it.”

 

“She died to bring us vital information,” said Thranduil. He was watching her closely. “Would you not have done the same?”

 

“A thousand times again, if to save Mirkwood,” said Tauriel, “but never to earn the forgiveness of one who had no right to withhold it. She should not have had to do it.”

 

“It was her choice to make,” said Thranduil. He crossed to her in two long strides, brushed his thumbs over her eyes. She leaned into his touch, helpless.

 

“I know. By all I hold dear, I do know. And yet—I always thought I would have longer. Looking back on it, I would always have forgiven her. I just needed more time. But the war took that away from me.” She broke away from him and sat on the bed. Her hands felt heavy. They felt again the weight of a dying elf. “I suppose I thought the world would wait. That has always been my weakness,” she added bitterly. “I have never spoken soon enough, or well enough. I have already forgotten a lesson desperately learnt. Yet it never occurred to me before this day that I could truly lose—those I care about.” Tauriel had been about to say something different. _Coward_ , she cursed herself, digging her nails into her own palms. _Do you love him?_ asked a human voice in her head. Thranduil looked into her as if he knew her thoughts. She felt a sudden panic at that, and cast her mind for a new topic.

 

“Have you heard from Legolas?” she asked. “Is he well?”

 

Thranduil’s hand, stretching out towards her, paused in midair and then lowered to his side.

 

“Ah,” he said, and then, “he and his company were in Lothlorien a month ago. There has been no word since then. But I would have heard if he was dead.”

 

Tauriel nodded. She was struggling with her tongue. Before she could force it into obedience, Thranduil spoke.

 

“For my part,” he said, “I believed that you did not wish for my company.”

 

“And what convinced you otherwise?”

 

“Nothing has. I have only hope. Tomorrow I may well ride into battle, and I do not wish to go to Mandos without one last memory of your touch, your smell, your fingers in mine…” He was breathing very fast. His eyes flickered over her face with open hunger. When she reached for him, they folded into each other as if they had never been apart.

 

A warm golden feeling was unfurling in her body as they kissed, slow like honey or love. She pressed herself against him, losing herself in him. Thranduil’s clever fingers were already picking at the latches and ties of her uniform, undoing them seemingly by memory. Her own hands stumbled over the clasp of his cloak. They drew each other down into oblivion. She called his name out into the dark behind her eyelids.

 

They woke at the same time the next morning. From the distant courtyard, the sound of blowing horns and neighing horses drifted in through the open window. Her scouts had returned.

 

Tauriel lay nose to nose with Thranduil, breathing in and breathing out. Her fingers traced the outline of his face. She wondered if there would ever be mornings like this again.

 

“I love you,” he said, and levered himself out of bed before she could respond.

 

They were riding to war within the hour, eight thousand warriors slipping silently through the woods, a battle line hundreds across and scattered over the length of a mile. Soldiers of Mirkwood needed no roads to march along. The forest would be their road, their field of battle, their shelter, and their grave.

 

Tauriel and her guards were leaping ahead through the upper branches, scouting and keeping watch. She felt vaguely exposed without the abundant leaf cover which normally thicketed the canopy. Green growth was the heart of Mirkwood. Without it, Tauriel almost felt her homeland to be a stranger.

 

The soft snort of an elk brought her gaze down. Thranduil was riding directly beneath her, gleaming in silver armor. She had put every piece of it on him herself, turning her fingers in circles along the edges as if to add her own protection to that offered by mere metal. At last she set his crown upon his head. _Wait_ , she told him when she was done, and reached out for him again. She plaited a single, secret braid just above his ear.

 

 _For luck_ , she had said, her fingers trembling in his hair.

 

They camped that night in a shadowy glen. The soldiers set up their tents in converging circles around Thranduil’s larger one, campfires hissing into life against the night. The mountains were beginning to rise softly out of the trees, still a half days march at least. Tauriel and her guards travelling alone would have made the journey in a single day, but the armies travelled with heavy gear and armor. Still, it made hard waiting.

 

Perhaps the soldiers felt the same, because they were softspoken as she passed by their fires. She heard them whisper of battles to come, and rumors of battles elsewhere, out in the wider world beyond their forest. Tauriel strode on.

 

“Celeneth,” she called. “Will you assign the sentries for tonight?”

 

“Surely,” said Celeneth. “How many may I have?”

 

Tauriel looked at Elanor, who was standing silently by.

 

“How many will you need for your scouts?”

 

“A dozen. No. Two dozen.”

 

“Then the rest of the Guard will stand watch tonight,” Tauriel told Celeneth. “Be sure to assign me a shift as well.”

 

“You jest,” said Celeneth with good humor. “No, Captain, I do not think so. I have a suspicion that we’ll need you fully rested tomorrow.”

 

Tauriel frowned at her. “If the rest of the Guard is to stand watch, then so will I.”

 

“I agree with Celeneth on this,” said Elanor boldly. “We have only one Captain. We need you to give us strength.” She ducked her golden head, suddenly shy. “Please, Captain? We will wake you if anything passes in the night.”

 

There was a shout from behind them, and all three spun around, hands reaching for their weapons. A circle of soldiers leapt outwards from their center, chased haphazardly by an escaping fire. Eagerly it licked across the carpet of fallen leaves, remnants of a dry and hot year. Tauriel cursed and ran forward.

 

By the time she, Celeneth, and Elanor reached the escaping flame, most of it had been extinguished underneath hastily poured bootfuls of dirt. Tauriel ground her boot firmly on the last ember. Celeneth let out a laugh.

 

“I think much of what we do tonight will be to contain these little fires from burning us all,” she said. “If you’d take my advice, I suggest you should save your energy for the more important things. You can’t lead us tomorrow if you’re chasing fires all night.”

 

Examining the slightly blackened heel of her boot, Tauriel let out a sigh. “You may be right,” she admitted. “Have the fires put out before the camp goes to sleep. And do not hesitate to wake me,” she added sternly. “For anything.”

 

“Anything we can’t handle,” promised Celeneth, and Tauriel had to content herself with that.

 

As she expected, Thranduil’s tent was full of generals and maps. Tauriel, entering, reflected that some unlucky souls would have had to carry the table and chairs that the generals were gathered around. And they were not even showing the courtesy of using the chairs, she noted to herself wryly.

 

She made her way to Thranduil, who put his bare hand briefly over hers. The generals, arguing over tactics, didn’t seem to notice her. Tauriel in turn barely bothered to listen. Until her scouts returned with more information on the enemy disposition, questions of specifics were nearly pointless. They realized it too, or perhaps it was their own version of a pre-battle ritual, for the arguing soon died down.

 

“If we could know for certain that they were cutting through the pass…” said Tuilindor, trailing off.

 

“We are blind,” said Thorphen with disgust. We must not overcommit to something now that we will come to regret with more information. I assume we will get that shortly, at least?” This last was addressed to Tauriel. So they had noticed her after all.

 

“My scouts will return before dawn,” she told him.

 

“Then we shall have to resume this over breakfast,” said Merilin. “Now let us retire. We will not inspire confidence by being half-asleep before the battle.”

 

They left the tent, making their bows as they went. Tauriel made a low noise of impatience when the tent flap fell closed. Thranduil laughed, briefly and soft.

 

“My generals brought us through the siege of Mordor,” he said. “We will be more than grateful for their counsel soon enough.”

 

“As you say, my lord,” said Tauriel. She tilted her head up to kiss his temple. “I suppose we will find out in the morning.”

 

But the morning brought only bad news and bickering. Tauriel’s scouts returned just before dawn, as promised. The orcs were circling west to go around the mountains, not a hoped-for outcome.

 

“If they are not cutting through the mountain pass, as the scouts are reporting, then we must meet them in open combat,” Merilin was saying.

 

“They will grind us down with their numbers,” replied Thorphen. “We will be backed up, defensive, every step of the way.”

 

“Then let us make them pay for every inch!” exclaimed Tuilindor. The others made derisive noises in reply to this.

 

Dulindir was inspecting the map, drawing his finger across forests and mountains.

 

“I see no reason why we cannot choose our battlefield,” he remarked. “Bottling the orcs in the narrow mountain pass is our best—and frankly, only hope of defeating them without heavy losses. If they will not come to the pass—then we must lure them to it.”

 

All gazes turned to him. Thranduil stirred.

 

“Explain.”

 

“What we require,” said Dulindir, his eyes moving from one person to the next, “is a small, fast-moving group to engage the enemy. It should represent a serious enough threat that they will prioritize its destruction, but not so threatening that their leaders will feel the need to retreat or evaluate their options. We need, in effect, bait: something that will arouse the orcs’ bloodthirsty instincts but not their suspicions. This group will need to stay just ahead of their army, running but never quite escaping, and make it into the mountain pass alive. There we can cut off the retreat and slaughter them at leisure. But this is, of course, a highly dangerous mission. The soldier who leads it must be exceptionally skilled and daring…”

 

Tauriel felt little more than an actor on a stage. The generals, and even Thranduil, were silent, waiting for the inevitable words to be spoken. She lifted up her chin and said them calmly.

 

“I will do it. The Royal Guard volunteers for this duty.”

 

“No,” said Thranduil.

 

“My lord, I beg the honor,” she said, turning to him. “There is no one else who can do it as we can. The guard can move faster than any other unit in Mirkwood. We are trained in maneuvers of finesse and coordination. And—the orcs know my face. They will recognize us as scouts and be desperate to stop us from reporting on their presence here. No one else can do it.”

 

“The risk is too great.” His face was expressionless, but his fingers whitened almost imperceptibly on the table. The generals were silent, watching. Tauriel was keenly aware that this was a private argument. They might as well have been alone.

 

 “The risk of not trying cannot be borne,” she said. Her voice lowered. “I will not fail.”

 

Thranduil leaned back. His eyes swept the tent coolly.

 

“Advise me then, generals. What say you? Do you agree with this plan?”

 

They hesitated, throwing glances at each other. Dulindir folded his arms across his breastplate, his mouth a hard amused line. Thorphen spoke for them all.

 

“I do not say it is the best plan, my lord,” he said slowly. “But it is the only plan. We cannot hold back ten thousand orcs in open forest. If we survived such a combat, it would leave us broken, unable to meet the next army, or the one after that.” He licked his lips, met Tauriel’s eyes. He looked sorry. “We must do this.”

 

The pulse jumped in Thranduil’s throat. “You are in agreement?” he asked.

 

Merilin swallowed. “We are,” she said.

 

“We are,” said Tuilindor.

 

“We are,” said Dulindir, smiling.

 

“Very well,” said Thranduil. He rose. “We will march to our positions. Then, when we are in place, Captain Tauriel and her guards will bait the trap.” He cocked his head. There was a rasp of something dangerous in his voice. “Yet my concerns over the safety of this operation remain. The failure of this mission would mean the failure of this war. Do you not think so, Dulindir?”

 

The smile froze on his face. “My lord…” he began.

 

“Do you not agree that it is of the utmost importance to ensure the captain’s success?” asked Thranduil. A hard light glinted in his eye. “After all, you were the one who suggested this endeavor.”

 

Dulindir hesitated. “Yes, my lord.”

 

“Then it is clear to me what I must do. I will appoint one among you to accompany the guards, to ensure that the plan comes to fruition. But which of my generals, Dulindir, do you think I ought to choose?” Silence hung in the tent. “No answer?”

 

“I cannot say, my lord,” said the elf. He seemed to be having trouble with the words.

 

“You are being modest, I see. Who else among my generals has your finesse, your skill for stratagems?” The shadows in Thranduil’s eyes grew deeper. “I have put my trust into Captain Tauriel and her guards. Can I depend on you, Dulindir, to ride with them into danger?”

 

Dulindir blanched. “As you will it, my lord,” he said.

 

“Swear it,” said Thranduil, his voice no longer soft.

 

The general stumbled out of his chair and onto his knees.

 

“I swear it!”

 

“You will protect them from harm?”

 

“I will.”

 

“You will keep to the path you have set for them?”

 

“I shall!”

 

“Will you give your life for hers?”

 

Dulindir panted and did not answer. Thranduil’s sword was out in his hand in a blur of silver light.

 

“Answer me!” he snarled. Tauriel, motionless with shock, bolted into reaction. Her fingers clasped at his wrist.

 

“My lord!”

 

His swordtip wavered and withdrew. Thranduil’s eyes did not leave Dulindir, pale and wretched on the floor.

 

“He does not have to answer that,” said Tauriel. “Not when I….I would be honored to accept the general’s guidance.” She stepped back from him, positioning herself carefully between Thranduil’s naked sword and Dulindir.

 

Thranduil did not reply with words. He touched the gathered fingertips of his empty hand to his heart.

 

When Tauriel left the tent a moment later, she had a general following at her heels like a wounded hound.

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow within the few short hours of that morning’s march to the mountains, it had become common knowledge what had happened inside that tent.

 

Or at least, some version of it had. Enough of it had been truth that her guards were unsurprised by Tauriel’s announcement of the mission at hand. She found, instead, that they were practically salivating for it. They gathered around for her briefing, faces alive with anticipation. They started talking as soon as she had sketched out the details for them.

 

“And so we lead them on a chase—” began Mirdanion.

 

“—and into a trap,” finished Belegorn. He bared his teeth in violent satisfaction. “Like convincing the deer to chase the wolves.”

 

There was a murmur of eager agreement.

 

“Unusually ugly deer,” remarked Elanor. Tauriel flashed a grin.

 

“The wolves aren’t too impressive-looking either,” she said, to general laughter. “I am glad of your courage and good spirits,” she went on, more solemnly. “But please do not mistake me. This will be the most dangerous task the Royal Guard has ever had. You will favor me by putting the honor of Mirkwood before your own glory, and not heedlessly risking your own life or those of others. Are we agreed?”

 

The faces of the guards before her became sober.

 

“Aye, Captain,” called Dolorian, and was chorused by the rest of the hundred or so guards. Tauriel glanced at the sun, half-hidden behind shrouding grey clouds.

 

“The orc host lies south of us, heading west on the old forest road. By the time we reach it, the rest of our troops should be in position. We will have to be fast—Ewien, what are you doing here?”

 

Heads swiveled. The kitchen maid took a small step back at being the sudden center of attention for a hundred royal guards. There were a dozen other camp followers behind her; cooks and laundresses drafted from the palace. One of them put her hand on Ewien’s shoulder, and that seemed to give her courage.

 

“We heard what you are about to do,” she said softly. There was a small hamper in her arms, and she held it tightly. “This was…not how we thought we would present it to you, but now is the time of your need. It may give you strength, if you will accept it.”

 

Shaking a little, she folded back the cloth covering the hamper. The warm smell of honey and fragrant memories drifted before them. An astonished murmur ran through the crowd.

 

“Lembas bread,” someone muttered incredulously. “They made lembas bread for the captain.”

 

“It is yours to do with as you will,” said Ewien, raising a voice a little. They all went silent at that. Tauriel took the hamper into her arms, pleased.

 

“You have my thanks,” she said to Ewien. She turned and found Elanor at her elbow. “Will you have some, Elanor?”

 

“I will,” she replied, pitched low, and accepted the bread from her with both hands. The expression on her face was solemn. Somehow, without Tauriel quite noticing it, this had become a ceremony. She turned to the next, and the next, each one accepting their bread with both hands and no more words than an occasional ‘Captain’. Even Dolorian took the bread solemnly, casting his eyes down away from her.

 

Last she came to Dulindir. He stepped back from her.

 

“Your m—Captain. I—” He shook his head.

 

“I want you to take it,” she said. “If you are riding with me, then that makes you my man. And I protect my people.” She pressed the piece into his hands. “Eat it.”

 

Dulindir brought it to his lips, swallowing slowly. “I have not had lembas bread for many centuries,” he said.

 

“Is it as good as you remember?” she asked. “I have never tasted it.”

 

“No,” he said, looking at Tauriel as if he had never seen her before. “You would not have.” He ate every bite, and licked the crumbs off his fingers like a child.

 

Tauriel ate last of all. The taste was not a taste after all, but a sense-feel; it evoked the vague memory of white flowers under moonlight. Courage and strength welled up within her, tingling warmly at the end of her fingertips. The same were reflected in the eyes of every guard around her. Her blood was pounding out a drumbeat of victory.

 

“Mount up,” she ordered. “If we are swift and brave, this day may be ours. For Mirkwood!”

 

“Mirkwood!” roared out the guard, voices ringing in joy.

 

The sweet glowing feeling of the lembas bread was still warming her stomach as they rode through the trees, a warm wind whipping at their faces. The horse Tauriel was riding was familiar to her; a golden colt with black legs. She had ridden his great-great-grand-dam to Dale, many years ago. She leaned forward, huddled tight on top of the horse, and whispered the story to him, how she and the golden mare had outsped the king himself. One ear flicked back to her, listening.

 

She knew when they were close to the road because she knew the Mirkwood, familiar like the calluses on her hands. Her arm went up in a signal. Seamlessly her company of guards split into many streams, disappeared into the forest to the left and right. Half the guards, including Tauriel, would remain mounted. They would constitute the main bait. Elanor was leading the second group, who would be hidden in the trees with bows, sowing confusion in the orcish ranks. Together they would lure and drive the army into the pass, there to be cut down.

 

Each squadron of her mounted guards had an orc company to which they were assigned, to ensure that they had the enemy’s full attention. Tauriel herself would need to show herself longer, and to the front company. The commanders would be at the front, and they would value her capture in particular for the information she could provide.

 

 _It is a foolish risk_ , said Thranduil’s voice in her head, worried and angry. She shook her head to clear herself of it. They had not spoken since she had left the tent. It would not have accomplished anything in any case. They each already knew how it would have gone. She pictured Thranduil, seated tall and proud on his elk, having his own imagined argument with her. _Foolish risks are my specialty_ , she might be saying. The thought made her smile, tentatively at first, and then with a reckless shout of laughter she charged out into the open of the forest road.

 

She and the front line of ten thousand orcs stared at each other. The colt she was riding whinnied, high and defiant against the wind, which was rising. Above it she could hear the guttural snarling of the Black Speech, of which she knew little and was happy to know little. The only words she caught were ‘she-elf’ and ‘king’. But she was far more fluent in the language of combat. The archers, stunned at first by her sudden appearance, were raising their bows. Black swords were unsheathing. Tauriel touched her heels to her horse’s sides and he was plunging back into the forest, exploding away with nervous energy. They were followed by what sounded like the entire horde, a screaming, howling cacophony of ill intent.

 

Coolly Tauriel looked back. It was not quite the entire army of orcs, but to her left she could hear her guards luring and taunting the other companies. Orc discipline was not famous in the first place, and it had easily fallen apart in the face of such tempting prey. They came onwards now, faster than she had thought possible. She leaned down against her straining mount, shouting orders to her guards in a voice that was drowned out by the wind before they even reached her own ears. Somehow they seemed to hear, for mounted guards suddenly appeared all around her, riding hard against the wind. They struggled grimly on.

 

She would remember the chase later as a series of unconnected moments, images in her head divorced from their meaning. The hammering of her heart was also the frenetic pounding of her horse’s hooves, becoming the endless patter of arrows at her back, a dry and pitiless rain. The wind switched back and forth capriciously, or so it seemed; at one moment baffling their arrows and the next lending them greater speed. They sprouted out of tree trunks and the backs of her guards, one after the other; she was moving so fast that she did not have time to see their faces.

 

Tauriel would recall screaming orders; not by their intent or direction, but only by the raw state they left her throat in afterwards. She raised her arm and heard dozens of voices roar out in answer. She could not tell how many were missing, nor how the archers in the trees were faring. There was little time to think about it. They were a tight, surging arrowhead, all moving together for the mountains. Behind them were ten thousand orcs, enraged and lured into a narrow, confused column. The wind was in their faces now, turning away the arrows at their backs. Their horses were trembling beneath them. Sweat stood out white on their necks. But they did not abate their speed; whether that was from fear or adrenaline, Tauriel could not say. Her eyes were blind and stinging from the hot quick wind. She only knew that they were riding, riding, riding…into the pass.

 

For a moment Tauriel was overtaken by the mad urge to turn around. The mountain pass, although it had looked so narrow on the map, was wide enough for fifty men across. In this open space she felt keenly their numbers. They were a small band on brave, tired horses, and behind them came ten thousand orcs, howling for her blood.

 

“We are the wolves,” she whispered to herself. “We are the hunters, we are the forest…” Her breath hitched. Against all reason, she wanted badly to turn and fight. The grey walls of stone rising on either side of her were nothing like the shelter of the trees. Racing into their heart, she felt fear claw at her throat. On her left, on her right, there was no one. His name rose to her lips and died there. Where was Thranduil?

 

The orcs were catching up, spurred by bloodlust and numbers. One behind her leapt forward in the air with his sword out and caught her horse a glancing blow on his flank. The colt screamed, a terrible sound, and bucked forward. Tauriel barely kept her seat.

 

“Hold on,” she whispered to the terrified animal. “Hold on, just a little longer.” She hoped it was true. She could hear the orcs approaching, coming for another try. She turned in the saddle and shot one through its open eye. It toppled backwards, falling almost comically into the arms of the one behind it, who discarded the body with disgust. They kept coming. The other guards were firing too, but their bows were forest bows, awkward and inaccurate on the back of a horse. The few they dropped were not enough to deter the horde. It happened within a second or two; the orcs were among them. Claws wrapped around her ankle and pulled her off her mount by brute force.

 

Flat on her back on the ground, struggling to regain her breath, her vision filled with the shadows of charging orcs, and then an ugly, four-fanged leer. Spittle dripped down from his snarl onto her face. A dagger appeared in his hand.

 

“Captain!” cried a voice. Tauriel flung herself out of the way as the dagger came down. Dolorian was leaning out of his saddle, long knife in hand, and buried it deep in the back of the orc’s skull.

 

But there was no time for relief. They were surrounded by orcs now, charging at and around them. Tauriel danced around the long reach of a halberd, struggling to find a moment to draw her swords. Dolorian tugged at his reins, yelling incoherently. His mount reared, panicked, whites showing in his eyes. Orcs were rushing by all around them, ramming bodily into the horse. Tauriel, still trying to evade the orc’s halberd, could barely make out the horses’ screams in the chaotic noise, but she heard the laugh; brutal, ugly. It demanded her attention. Despite every screaming instinct in her body, her head turned.

 

The orc was towering, white and black warpaint streaking down his face like forked lightning. He laughed again as he slammed his spear into the chest of the horse. Dolorian went down with his mount. Tauriel gasped, not quite from shock. The orc with the halberd had finally succeeded in catching her, in her distraction. Pain blazed along her side, her upper thigh. She threw herself forward, towards Dolorian, before she could collapse where she stood.

 

It was only muscle memory that saved her then. No conscious thought could have made her recall her training at that moment. But Thranduil had made her do this drill a thousand times until he was satisfied with it, and it was burned into her aching muscles. When she came out of her roll, she came up drawing her swords. They met the orc’s weapon in midair, turned it aside. One sliced through the haft of the weapon itself, the other, his throat. She stumbled forward as she watched him fall. She felt so very heavy, and darkness was beginning to claim the corners of her eyes. But she turned, swaying on her feet, and looked to Dolorian.

 

He was on the ground, pinned by the body of his dead horse; and by something else, too. The orc wearing the warpaint was leaning, almost casually, on a spear. It was planted like a tree in Dolorian’s belly. He heard her scream and looked up, grinning. Tauriel felt something rush up inside of her, fiercer than pain or fear. She sprang forward, her swords blurring, and laid flesh bare to the bone, once, twice, across his eyes, across his throat. She whirled again, grasping her swords with hands that she could no longer feel, and buried both her swords deep in his chest. They fell to the ground together like some macabre synchronized dance. He was quite dead, she was sure of that, but Tauriel was kneeling by Dolorian’s side, feeling for a pulse, for anything.

 

“Please,” she begged. “Please, please, please…”

 

She could not have said what she was bargaining for, or what she would have given in return. A rising noise brought her gaze up. There were dark shapes in the air, moving fast with the wind. A flock of starlings in flight coming towards her—no, a sudden squall of rain—no. Arrows.

 

“Dolorian,” she whispered. “They’re here. The army is here. We’ve won. Dolorian…”

 

Around her, in the distance before her, orcs were buckling to their deaths in stunning numbers, some with arrows spiking out of their throats and eyes like pincushions. The battlefield erupted into chaos. Orcs, seeing the death that lay ahead, began to retreat at full speed, colliding with their brethren behind them. Around her were howls of death and confusion and rage, but Tauriel only had ears for the small choking sound coming from the elf in her arms. Slowly, slowly, Dolorian was opening his eyes.

 

Dark with pain, they flickered from side to side. They found her face and fixed on it. He tried to speak, coughed, shivered and tried again.

 

“Don’t leave me here,” he said, straining. There was blood on his lower lip. “Give me back to the forest, but not…here. Don’t leave…my body here.”

 

Tauriel cradled his head between her hands. “I will not leave you,” she choked out. The battle swirled drunkenly at the edges of her vision.

 

He sighed, his eyes fluttering. “Taurîs,” he said. “Farewell.”

 

She touched his cooling cheek. His face was hard to look at. “Let us meet again, Dolorian,” she said urgently. “Wait not in Mandos. Come back to me. Come back to Mirkwood.”

 

His body was already empty. Tauriel bent over it, tears falling from her open eyes. Her entire body was shaking. Who else would death take away from her?

 

Something had changed in the tenor of the battle around her. The singsong hum of arrows had ceased, to be replaced by the sounds of ambush and melee. The army of Mirkwood had come down from the mountains. Orcs screamed and died around her. Tauriel stroked back the loose hairs from Dolorian’s face, numb to it all. Someone she recognized came and pressed her with questions. Whether she answered them, or what she said, she knew not. He went away. In a moment, or perhaps a drifting hour, he returned, brown eyes peering worriedly into hers.

 

“Dulindir,” she said, struggling for a name.

 

“Let us take you away from here, my lady,” he said. He slid her arm across his shoulders and lifted her to her feet. Tauriel gasped, staggering against his shoulder.

 

“What is it? What is wrong?” asked a voice from above. It was low, tremulous with worry. Despite her pain, Tauriel strained towards it.

 

“She’s wounded, my lord,” said Dulindir. He sounded no less worried, to her faint astonishment. “Her clothes are soaked in blood from ribs to hipbone.”

 

Thranduil made a low, choked-back noise. He came into her vision, dismounting his elk and moving towards her in one fluid motion.

 

“You need to see the healers,” he said urgently.

 

She pulled away from his reaching hand, stumbling back against Dulindir.

 

“I can’t,” mumbled Tauriel. “I won’t leave him this time. I gave my word. I won’t leave him, I won’t…Dolorian, he…”

 

Dimly she saw Thranduil’s face tighten.

 

“Tauriel, please…”

 

Was he begging? Thranduil never begged. The world tilted crazily. This was blood loss, some part of her brain knew. She had to go to the healers. But she had made a promise…

 

Dulindir’s voice intruded into her spinning thoughts. “I will keep vigil over your guard, my lady. I will defend his body.”

 

Her eyes snapped to him. “You would do that?” she asked thickly. Her head felt so very heavy. Blood was trickling freely down her leg.

 

“Captain,” said the general. “It would be my honor.”

 

Tauriel resisted no more. Tenderly Thranduil drew her up in his arms, leaping into the high warmth and safety of the back of his elk. The jolting stride lulled her to drowsiness. She rested her head against his armored chest, barely aware of herself, as he bore her away from battle and death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys. Shamefully, after all this time, it isn't even the full chapter. I had to split this up into two parts. I hope you do enjoy it though. Also, thank you all for your kind comments and your kudos. I'm honored you chose to spend your time reading this behemoth.


	11. Chapter 11

The soldier stiffened at his post as she approached the tent in the darkness, straining to see her features under the shadow of her hood.

 

“You cannot enter,” he said, putting one hand on his weapon. Tauriel looked him full in the face, her hood falling back slightly and the light of her lantern illuminating her hair.

 

“Are you certain about that?” she asked, and the soldier bowed and let her pass. Inside the tent was the silence of the dead. Here, lying in cold rows upon the ground, were all those that had fallen in the great battle and somewhere among them was Dolorian. She lifted the lantern and moved further in. The darkness retreated before it with a sullen slowness.

 

Uneasy dreams had woken her. Only hours had passed since she had been carried away from battle, but it seemed that she had slept a lifetime. Vaguely Tauriel remembered that they had been winning, or so she thought. She had dreamt of a blurred, nightmarish ride that might perhaps have been a memory. But the color of Dolorian’s blood on the ground, and the promise that she had made him as he lay dying, she knew to be vivid reality. _Don’t leave me here_ , he had begged her, and she did not intend to.

 

The air within the tent was stultifying; warmer by far than the night outside, warmer than her blood or her breath. With every step she felt more feverish. The flame in her lantern was flickering over dead faces as she passed by, arranging lights and shadows to turn expressions glad or wicked, as if the dead felt for one last time the emotions of the living. But then the light passed over them, and they lay cold and unfeeling once more. The path was lined with the faces of the dead, faces forever empty of themselves, faces that were suddenly, shockingly, familiar.

 

Here at her feet was the body of one of her guards, and there, another. Tauriel stopped as if struck. _She knew them_. When she lifted her lantern high, light sprawled over the faces of more, many more. A dozen—no, more than that—Tauriel turned in a circle, counting. She kept losing track as she recognized a face, or remembered suddenly the particular curve of a smile that she would never see again. Tauriel had reached thirty before she could count no more. Somehow the hot night air had become chilly in her lungs. She felt it coiled around her suddenly—mortality—and it was a cold, heavy weight.

 

A memory came to her, so sudden that it was almost painful; the rash words she had spoken to the generals only days before. _There is not a soldier in your armies that is afraid to die_ , she had said, and now the aftertaste of those words on her tongue was as bitter and ashy as if they had invited this misfortune to her guards. She had walked past dead soldiers without this twisting in her heart, this wrenching inside her, as if some cold hand had taken hold of her insides and was pulling—but this was different somehow, for they were her guards, she had led them into battle—they had trusted her, they had followed her into impossible odds, and now—now—

 

She almost expected herself to scream, to weep. But shock had taken her to a place beyond tears. Her legs collapsed beneath her. The wound on her side burned and strained at the movement, bringing a low cry of pain to her lips; it echoed strangely and was lost to silence. She panted and listened to the quick, hollow sound of her own heartbeat.

 

Tauriel had never feared the dark. But beyond the harsh circle of her lanterns’ light was something that was more than mere darkness. There was an emptiness here with her, and it seemed to stretch on past the boundaries of the tent, infinitely on, until she was the only living being in all the world. She stared out into the darkness and could not comprehend it. Why had it taken Dolorian? Why had it taken so many of her guards?

 

But the void held no answers. After a while she climbed back to her feet. She could not seem to cry. She could not even seem to _feel_. Grief had risen up within her, clawing against her skin, swelling until she thought she might burst with it. And then it had gone, leaving her empty. Because she could think of nothing else to do, she lifted up her lantern light and kept on the search.

 

When she finally found Dolorian, she could only look down at him dispassionately, try as she might to feel something. This was nothing but his body. Why had she come here?

 

Still, there were some things that must be done.

 

“We won,” she said to him, aware that there was nothing inside that could hear her. “Mirkwood is safe. And I will bring you home to her.” Tauriel touched her fingers to his forehead and let out a low breath.

 

Outside the night was cooler than the day only by the faintest of margins, and without even a warm breeze. Tauriel pressed her hands to her face. Even with her eyes tightly closed, dead faces stared hollowly back at her.

 

“My lady,” said a living voice.

 

Tauriel drew her hands down.

 

“You knew I would be here?”

 

“His majesty knew,” said General Dulindir. He extended his arm to her elbow on her wounded side. Tauriel looked him askance but allowed it. “I volunteered to come retrieve you when your bed was found empty.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I wished to apologize,” he said bluntly, as he began to lead her away. “You are not who I thought you were.”

 

It took her a moment to collect the words, and then they were bubbling out in an angry rush. “Should I guess?” she asked. “A dwarf-lover, a traitor, an impetuous fool that only served to warm his majesty’s bed at night?”

 

Dulindir did not hesitate, which she found herself grudgingly respecting. “Yes,” he said. “All that and more. Worst of all, a plaything, given power and authority by a whim; a pretty face, a mistress for a king grown lonely with the years. It is strange, but not unheard of. That he should choose to— _love_ —a Sylvan elf, a mere captain of the guard, that was unthinkable. And one that had betrayed him for a dwarf, no less…But I was being blind. Or perhaps it was wishful thinking. I had assumed that if his majesty cared for you, he would have wed you by now, lowborn Sylvan or not. It amused me to have you cast away. But I was quite wrong. The king would die for you, wouldn’t he?”

 

Tauriel jerked her head but did not deny it.

 

“And your guards would follow you to Mordor’s gates if you chose to lead them there. Even the maids and camp followers—”

 

“If you have a point, get to it.”

 

“I am sorry,” said Dulindir, slowing his pace. “That is what I am trying to say. And—I am grateful. Never did I believe that I would taste lembas bread again.” He looked slightly away from her, into the night. “Nor did I deserve to. That is the stuff for heroes and queens, although I wonder if you even truly know what you have done…”

 

Tauriel, unwillingly, softened.

 

“I think I owe you my gratitude as well,” she admitted. “You guarded Dolorian’s body today when I could not. I do not think I could have left him if you had not…” She shook her head to clear it. “Now that the battle here is done, I can return his body to the woods. I have you to thank for that.”

 

Dulindir came to an abrupt halt. They were just outside of Thranduil’s tent. Within she could see lights and silhouettes.

 

“I would not have your gratitude,” he said in a suddenly hoarse voice. Tauriel frowned at the tent.

 

“Why would he wish to see me in the middle of the night?” she wondered out loud. “General, do you know? Surely it is early yet to celebrate.”

 

The general grabbed her arm and spoke urgently.

 

“Please. Do not be angry with him.”

 

Tauriel stared. “Angry? For what reason would I be angry?” A sudden premonition crept up her spine. “What has he done?”

 

Dulindir swallowed. “The victory,” he said, “was not complete.”

 

She shook her head. “I do not understand. We…we led them into the pass. They were trapped…”

 

“Not all of them were in the pass. The trap was sprung too early. Lady Tauriel—!”

 

Tauriel had seized the front of his tunic, fabric crumpling between her locked fists. “What happened?”

 

“It was my error,” he said softly. “I did not understand you, or him…The king, my lady…the king ordered the attack before it was ready. He saw you fall off your horse—and that was the end…”

 

Tauriel was backing away.

 

“No,” she said, or tried to say. She wanted to scream it, but only the hoarsest whisper came out. “How…” She pushed air through her lips. “How many,” she breathed. “How many?”

 

“Lady Tauriel…”

 

She looked at him, mute, shivering.

 

Dulindir bowed his head. “Two thousand orcs escaped the battle,” he said to the ground.

 

Tauriel turned at once. She burst into the tent like a lightning flash in this warm slow night, scattering maps and generals before her. Fury burned under her skin. She crossed to Thranduil in three long strides and slapped him full across the face.

 

The sound seemed to echo in the suddenly still tent. Thranduil raised his fingers, delicately, to the burgeoning stain on his pale cheek.

 

“Leave us,” he murmured.

 

Their audience of generals needed no further urging. Tauriel found words at last and flung them at him.

 

“My guards died for nothing,” she began. “Dolorian died for nothing. Two thousand orcs would lay ruin to the heart of Mirkwood. Our halls are undefended. They will all be dead by the time we return. How could you? How dare you?”

 

“I dare because I am king,” said Thranduil. His cool dark voice sent rage bubbling up through her blood. “Your guards died solely because you willed it. I forbade you to go and you overruled me, without thought or care to—”

 

“Don’t,” she said. “Am I to blame? Am I the reason so many of my guards lie dead? Yes. That is what you wish to hear, isn’t it? Yes! I ordered them into battle knowing full well the cost. I spent their lives to buy victory. But you _stole that out of their mouths_.”

 

“Do not dare defy me for saving your life!” Thranduil’s voice roughened. “That was no choice. You knew that. You have always known that. How could I have made it clearer that you would be the ruin of me? Yet you went regardless. No bravery, that. Was it, Tauriel? Your life was never in danger so long as I was there to protect it. I would always have made the choice that I did.” His eyes were dangerously dark. “I would do it—I would do it again.”

 

Her lips had already been shaping her next angry words, but at that they quivered and closed. Rage drained out of her and was replaced by something far less welcome.

 

_I would do it again_

 

The words passed through her, far more piercing than arrows. She knew that she would never unhear them. _I would do it again_. It felt as if a light had gone out in the world. Some star, out beyond the shrouding clouds, had died in the night. Tauriel looked at her king and could not believe that she had ever thought, even if for a moment, that she might learn to love him.

 

Unexpectedly, her eyes began to well with emotion.

 

“You are not the king I believed you were, then,” she said quietly. “Many of my men were dear to me. I have known them for centuries, and might have known them for eternities more. They were my friends. Yet I sent them to die, and I let them die, because I knew that there was something they treasured more than their own lives.” And now at last the tears were coming, rolling unheeded down her cheeks. Thranduil’s fingers twitched as if he wished to wipe them away. Perhaps he sensed just how likely she would be to suffer such a gesture, because he did not attempt to. “You should have had at least as much strength as I. And I…I should have had the strength to leave you long ago.”

 

Thranduil moved into her path. “No,” he said. “Where are you going? I forbid it.”

 

“The time for permission is long past,” she told him. “Let me through.”

 

“Tauriel, listen to me,” he said urgently. “The army will be on the march within the hour. We have only delayed enough to look to our wounded and make our plans. Whatever you are planning can wait.”

 

“ _I_ will not wait,” said Tauriel. “I think I have waited long enough already.”

 

Thranduil did not seem to hear the shakiness of her voice. His eyes were devouring every piece of her, as if he could command her will by keeping her image in his heart. There was concern written there on his face, and desperation also, but true realization had not yet come. Somehow, amidst everything else, dread found a place in her gut. She did not wish to break his heart.

 

“Then listen to your honor,” he tried. “You made me a promise, that day in the green forest. That if ever I should ask, you would remain behind. That you would stay out of danger.” His hands were on hers. She stared at them; they were trembling. “You swore a vow.”

 

Her hands were trembling too. “It is one I cannot keep,” she managed to say.

 

Thranduil was very near. His breath brushed by the hairs on her neck. His warmth was the slow-burning fire of home and hearth, and the hem of his silver garment was still flecked with her blood from when he had pulled her away from battle. If she looked up into his eyes now, she knew that she would kiss him.

 

“I cannot live without you,” he said simply. His voice was so deep and low that it seemed to resonate in her bones.

 

Something like a sob pressed at her throat.

 

“I know,” she said, and pulled away from him. She plunged out of his tent back into the darkness. She did not look back; nor did he come after her. It was one of the things that she had always lov—admired, about Thranduil, that he knew her well enough to respect her mind, and to know when it would not be changed. And it would not be changed, she knew, but the fury that had driven her only a few moments ago was not equal to her despair. She stumbled to a halt, staring out into the inky velvet night. What could she do against two thousand orcs? They had scattered, surely, from the rout, but now with the fallen darkness they were certain to have regrouped. Even now they must be marching through the night. Tauriel could picture it as clearly as if they were passing before her; their black armor absorbing the night, the woods silent at their approach, every living creature quivering in whatever nests or burrows might hide them. Even the trees bending away from their presence, their footprints pooling with evil, and Mirkwood defenseless before them. It was not her fault. But it _was_ her responsibility, and the weight of it fell heavy on her.

 

What could she do? But if to fail was inevitable, not to try was unthinkable. Blood was pounding wildly in her chest. Her wound, only hours old and forgotten in her fury, burned and stung. She put a hand to her side, breathing shallowly from the pain. It had been stitched and bandaged, administered with all the skill Thranduil had mustered, but not even his healers could close such a wound in less than a day. Would it stay closed long enough for her to reach home? It would have to. If her wound split now she had no delusions about her chances of survival.

 

There was nothing left but to find her horse, and hope to outrace her doubts. Yet every footstep, however lightly she tried to tread, was a painful jolt to her side. The idea of getting on horseback was torture. By all rights she should not have been out of her bed at all. She had meant to return directly to sleep after finding Dolorian, had grim chance not intervened. Now Tauriel did not expect that she would be sleeping for some time, if at all.

 

Another step sent fresh waves of agony up her ribcage. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to a quicker pace, racing across the ground as quickly as a shadow. After all, what was pain to _her_? She was Tauriel, huntress of the Mirkwood. She had seen her parents slaughtered at an early age. She had loved unwisely, drowned in her grief, and risen again to fight another day, and another day. Pain was mother’s milk. It had scarred her and made her strong. She would not submit to it now. Her breath fell raggedly out of her lungs, but she continued on, her feet light and swift to the horse-lines.

 

And then stopped, staring in dismay. For the horses were already saddled, stomping and snorting to be off, and beside each one stood a Royal Guard, clad in armor and weapons in hand.

 

Some of them were no fitter to be out of the sickbed than she was. At the front, Elanor bounced on the balls of her feet, golden head tilted proudly back. General Dulindir stood beside her.

 

“The general told us what happened. I hope you do not expect us to stay behind,” she said, before Tauriel could even muster the words.

 

Tauriel swallowed. “How could I possibly ask you to come with me?”

 

“You do not need to. Here we are, are we not?” She crossed her arms, defiant.

 

But Elanor was wrong. Not all of them _were_ there. Only forty were assembled before her; she prayed that the rest had found better sense, but suspected instead that only those too badly wounded to ride had remained behind. As for the rest—she had seen them earlier that night, unmoving, unspeaking, and cold. She shook her head slowly.

 

“We have ridden together many times,” said Tauriel. “But this will not be one of them.”

 

Color flamed on Elanor’s cheeks. “You are my Captain, and you always will be. But that is an order I will not accept!” She looked quite wild. It was a rare show of temper from her, and Tauriel found that she did not know what to say. Elanor poured words out into her silence. “I will ride with you, and if it is to the end of the world, then so be it. You will find my bow at your side. You will find my knife in your hand. So I swear, by all the names of the stars—”

 

“Stop it.” Her eyes felt hot. “Haven’t enough of our brothers and sisters died this day? Must you be so willing to ride from one fire to the next?” She moved forward blindly, past Elanor and Dulindir. The general’s voice rasped at her back.

 

“We could question you the same way, Captain. But we will not, because we trust to your courage and honor. We would not stop you, nor turn you away from your path. All we ask—” he broke off. There was a note of pleading in his voice that she did not understand.

 

“Let us ride with you,” said another, bluntly. Tauriel could not immediately place the voice, nor did she trust herself to turn and look. The comment was immediately echoed by another, and another.

 

“You do not know what you are asking.” A horse had been set aside for her, a gleaming-eyed black-eared mare. She wondered what had become of her golden colt. This one already had her bow and swords strapped to her saddle. She untied her sword belt and looped it around her waist. “I cannot ask you to take on this burden with me. I—cannot. I cannot lead you down to watch you die. Not again.” With difficulty, she mastered her voice. “My friends, this is parting…”

 

She turned to face them, feeling heavy in all her joints. Elanor was staring at her. And then, slowly, she sunk to the earth on both knees. Dulindir was next, and then Mirdanion, and Celeneth and Emliniel, until they were all kneeling down before her, falling to the ground like some wave returning to the shore.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked to their bowed backs. Her heart was pounding, blood crashing in her ears like thunder. “Get up.”

 

They would not. “The king treats you as an equal,” said Belegorn. “Why should we not kneel to you?”

 

“We took lembas bread from your own hands,” said Celeneth. “That is a duty that belongs only to the queen.”

 

“I heard what the forest seer called you,” said Elanor, last of all. “Taurîs. You know as well as I what that means. We are the Queensguard now.”

 

“What?” said Tauriel blankly, but then voices of agreement came from every direction. Tauriel glared at them all, indiscriminate. She had forgotten that about lembas bread—the giving of which was the right of the queen alone. She would have words with Ewien later, she vowed, for the maid must have been plotting this all along. And Thranduil, for allowing it—she did not want to think about Thranduil now. As for this about the forest seer—

 

“That means nothing,” she said, not bothering to mask her anger. “I do not wish for this. I am no queen. I am only an unworthy excuse for a guard captain, but for all that, my last orders _shall_ be obeyed. You will not follow me.”

 

“It is too late for that,” said Dulindir.

 

Tauriel couldn’t think over the drumming in her head. All she could think about was Mirkwood, burning. There was no room for anything else, and it made all her other thoughts frantic and overloud. She felt as if _she_ was burning, overtaken completely by a fierce sense of urgency. She was not a queen. She was a simple guard, and it was her duty to go, to ride; to defend Mirkwood if she was able and to die for it if she was not; those were the only things she knew. Not the giving of lembas bread, or the subtleties of court—or, it appeared, the depths of the king’s heart. Why would they burden her with this? Why would they keep her from—

 

She took a deep breath and felt suddenly dizzied. _What am I doing?_

 

“If you would follow me for the sake of following me—be gone.” Her voice was shaking. She couldn’t know if she was making the right decision. She forced herself to continue in a stronger voice. “If you would crown me for some misguided reason, then, then you can stay here on your knees, for all I care. The rest of you—I beg you not to come. If there is anyone that loves you, I ask you not to ride with me. But I…” Her hands tightened around her horses’ reins. “I cannot keep you from doing your duty.”

 

Elanor was first off her knees. “I will never let you ride alone,” she said, and that was the end of it. Not one of them turned to leave, and Tauriel was sick with pride and grief and fear. This morning they had been over a hundred. Forty of them now were left, but she could not turn them away.

 

They rode.

 

There was no light to show their way, but the Mirkwood seemed to create a path beneath their horses hooves. Elves and horses breathed as one, straining every muscle forward. The blackness of the night was a rich backdrop for all of Tauriel’s worst fears. The pounding of her heart played out an urgent beat— _Mirkwood, Mirkwood, Mirkwood._ It was echoed by the rhythmic agony of her wounded side.

 

They rode. Pain became delirium. Bard rode beside her, although she had not thought of him in years. Vaguely she wondered if she ought to visit his city, someday when the war was over. Surely Bain was a man full-grown by now…But when she looked over to speak, no one was riding there but one of the guards. She stared at his pale, immortal features, struggling to return to the reality before her. It was then that she remembered that Bard and his children had been dead for decades. She looked back into the night, shaken. It was all she could do to keep her hands on the reins.

 

Dolorian spoke in her ear. “Keep your eyes open, Taurîs.” His voice was warm and vital. She thought she could feel his breath on her cheek. Without thinking, she responded.

 

“Do not call me that,” she mumbled. The sound of her own voice shocked her awake, briefly—only long enough to feel the confusion and grief of his passing again—before she slipped inexorably back into the dream. Was that Legolas that rode before her? She could not form words to call out to him, however she tried. Perhaps guilt held her tongue. He rode on, leaving her behind, fading into darkness. She shivered. When had the night stopped being so warm? She could not even feel the warmth of the horse beneath her. The wind in her face was an icy chill. Her hands were painfully cold, and then only numb. If she was still grasping the reins between her fingers, she could not feel it. The emptiness she had felt in the tent was back, grasping at her, pressing around her. She was alone in the world, only aware of the jolting of her horse, and soon, not even that.

 

They were fording the Forest River when Tauriel fell, almost gracefully, off her horse.

 

She awoke in light. Firelight. Briefly it dazzled her, and then the rest of her senses rushed in. A crowd of voices were speaking above her; too loud, and feeling of hard dry ground beneath her shoulders. Her clothes were wet. There was a lit torch above her. Beyond it was the darkness again.

 

“Where am I?” she asked, above the din. She realized then that her guards had actually been speaking quite softly. They were quiet, and then Elanor leaned forward into her vision and helped her to her elbows.

 

“Nearly home. We are on the north bank of the Forest River.” She narrowed her eyes and added, “This was the second time I have had to pull you from this river.”

 

Tauriel ignored this. Elanor could be angry at her later. “How long was I out?”

 

“Not more than a moment,” said Belegorn. “But I do not think you should get up!” he added hastily. “You are burning with fever.”

 

She was swaying on her feet, but not by much. “Then you will have to tie me to my horse. It won’t matter if we do not stop those orcs from crossing.”

 

“Then it won’t matter,” husked a voice from outside their circle of torchlight. Guards wheeled around, their swords flashing into their hands. Short for an elf, he emerged. It took Tauriel a moment to place him.

 

“Grawion?” It was the forest hunter. But what was he doing here?

 

“The orcs have already crossed,” he said, driving all such questions from her head. “West of here. The spiders spun bridges for them by the dozens. Scores fell in. They were not so lucky as you.” He nodded at Tauriel. “The water is deeper there, and none of their friends knew how to swim.”

 

“How many made it then?”

 

Grawion tilted his head, more used to counting herds of deer than enemy soldiers. “A thousand, perhaps, or two. More. I could not say.”

 

“And how long do we have before the rest of the army arrives? If they leave behind their dead, their wounded, tents, supplies, and march through the night?” Tauriel had no doubt that was exactly what Thranduil would do. “How long?”

 

Celeneth pulled at her lip. “Perhaps by dawn, if he does not mind coming with only the faster half of his host, and all of them exhausted before the battle even begins. We nearly rode our horses to death coming here, and the soldiers will be armored and on foot.”

 

“The orcs cannot be in better condition,” said Tauriel, but it was an empty sop. Dawn was four hours away, far too late to save Mirkwood. Involuntarily, she put a hand to her head. Belegorn was right. She could feel the dangerous heat of her forehead, as if a fire was burning under her skin. This heat was the same one that had killed their harvest and driven their prey north. It would not have been so bad if the forest had not been parched for so long. If only it would rain…

 

Tauriel blinked away her confused thoughts. Her mind was wandering. There was no reason to have thought of that. No reason at all…

 

Her eyes snapped to the flickering torch, held in Mirdanion’s hand, and stared at it until bright spots blossomed in her eyes. Mirdanion shifted uneasily.

 

“Captain?”

 

“Fire,” Tauriel said. She bent to pick up a leaf off the ground. It crumpled to dust in her hand. “That will be our army.”

 

A rustle of unease went around the group like an indrawn breath. Grawion made a low muted sound. Even her guards were shifting from foot to foot. But no one objected. The same desperation she felt was reflected in their eyes. She turned to the hunter.

 

“You saw them cross. How far from here are they?”

 

 He hunched his shoulders. “I know nothing of orcs. If they move as wolves do—an hour, perhaps.”

 

“And only half that from here to the palace,” said Tauriel, low. “We must stop them here or not at all.”

 

“We have just time enough to make a fire break,” offered Celeneth. “If we clear enough space of dry bush and wet it with water from the river—”

 

Tauriel whipped her hand through the air. “We cannot waste our time. Elanor, you must go back to the palace—” The other elf’s throat was already working, her eyes wide with denial. “—go to the palace and warn those there. They must stay well within the palace, where the fire will not reach them. It will not penetrate the stone.” She suddenly thought of the white flowers in Thranduil’s garden, and her throat tightened. “Even if everything else burns.”

 

Elanor cast her eyes down. “I understand,” she said at last; her duty stronger, as always, than her feelings.

 

“Go then. And if we do not succeed…” Tauriel hesitated. Their eyes met. They both knew that the palace could not possibly hold out until the king arrived. But Elanor tilted her chin up proudly.

 

“I understand,” she said again. “But you will not fail, Captain, my Queen.” She turned and was gone before Tauriel could think to correct her.

 

After that, things moved very quickly. Grawion left to warn the other solitary woodspeople, who had gathered to his cave rather than seek the protection of the elf-king’s halls. Gereth was among them—Tauriel felt distinctly unsettled by having the mad seer so nearby. But there was no time to think about it. They tore their own clothes to make rags for fire-arrows. Several skins of spirits were guiltily produced and then pared out and distributed to each guard, to be used to soak the arrows. Or at least, those were her orders, based on her best guesswork. Fire was no friend to her. In her dreams she still remembered the awful heat of the dragon, flying low over Lake-town. And for that matter, Tauriel was betting everything that the orcs, decimated in number and alone in a strange forest, would follow the river rather than any other path. If they chose a different route…but there was no time to think about that either.

 

It was not quite an hour when Belegorn came hastening out of the darkness. One look at his face told her all she needed to know.

 

“We’re out of time, aren’t we?” she asked softly. He nodded, grim, and took up a bundle of fire-arrows. He joined the others where they had gathered; attentive, facing her.

 

For all the trouble that it had caused her, she wished that she had lembas bread to give them. Anything, truly, that might reward them as they deserved for their courage. Thranduil should have been here to praise them as heroes, or some elf-queen out of stories, to give them hope and a lock of her hair. But there was only her.

 

She hesitated, knowing there was no time left for hesitation. Words felt empty.

 

“Dawn is in three hours,” she said at last. “Let it illuminate the world that we hope to see.”

 

There were no cheers. They nodded, grim-faced, and without a word turned and trotted away through the forest. Tauriel took up her own burden of arrows and followed. They were all taking their positions in the very tallest of the trees, thinking to let the orcs pass below their feet before they ignited the forest. Even with all the leaves fallen and gone, they would not be seen through the thick press of branches. The elves would rain down fire and death from their eyries, and wait out the flames from well above the inferno.

 

Her Sylvan ancestors had waged war like this once, Tauriel mused, before the Noldor had returned to Middle-Earth and taught them the way of the sword. Alone in the curving branches of titanic oak, Tauriel crouched down and waited. There was a wet sensation crawling over her ribs. She ignored it. One by one, the small click-snaps of flint against steel began around her, like the calls of the animals that had long ago fled the forest. With numb shaking hands, Tauriel managed to ignite a spark of her own. It settled into a dead leaf and began to devour it with a bright, voracious hunger. Alarmed, she covered the little flame with her hands. Below her was the relentless beat of a thousand orcs, marching.

 

Tauriel forced herself to stillness. She would not allow herself to make Thranduil’s mistake. Belegorn, just to her left, was at the very rear; his arrow would be loosed only when the entire column had passed underneath. His brother Mirdanion, at the very front, would match him within the same heartbeat. There would be no room for escape.

 

 _And then_ , she thought, closing her eyes tightly for just the moment. _And then it will finally be over._ She craved that moment so badly that she almost swayed off her branch. The hot sting of the flame in her hands awoke her. She opened her eyes to see Belegorn’s arrow, falling swiftly upon the orcs below. Fire blossomed where it struck, and panic came instantly on its heels. Tauriel stood, weariness forgotten, and touched her own arrow to the flame.

 

Instantly it ignited. Dropping the little burning leaf, which was already crumbling down to nothing, she nocked and loosed.

 

The arrow descended into chaos. A fell wind was beginning to rise and the fire rose with it. They had only gotten off one volley, but already the forest floor was a bright, seething mass. It was as if the fire had only been waiting for her to come and unleash it. The heat was tremendous, dizzying. Far below, orcs were dying in agony, but their cries went unheard over the jubilant roar of the fire. To prevent the ruin of her homeland Tauriel would have watched them all die, cold-eyed, or so she thought—but she had not been ready to watch _this_ death, nor prepared for the scale of the firestorm that she had so willingly and insanely begun. From the forest floor, flames danced up towards her like a thousand hands asking for mercy.

 

For a blurred moment she understood what it must be like to be the dragon, watching lives burn from high above. Woodbrush and saplings were gone in an instant. Small animals fled from their holes and were devoured. And the trees…the trees were glowing. Fire gleamed between cracks in the bark. It was racing up into the trees, feasting on dried and seasoned wood. Briefly Tauriel thought: _It is coming for us_.

 

And then the world shattered. First she coughed, desperately thirsty, and she knew that she was alive, and then her sight and hearing began to come back to her. She was on a burning branch, perhaps twenty foot above the ground. She was surrounded by flames. Tauriel cast her eyes about her, bewildered beyond measure. This was not her safe perch. But then, that had not been so safe, either; she had seen the flames rising in the trees. She remembered now. She had looked for the guards nearest her—Belegorn had met her eyes—she had shouted a warning, sure that he could not hear her over the flames—but he had nodded. And then the tree had come apart. No, it had exploded, fire consuming it from the inside. The noise had been awful. A wall of heat like an enormous hand had pushed her back, and Belegorn was simply gone. And she was here, blinking in the face of inferno like a fool.

 

“Captain!” cried a voice, and there was Celeneth, gesturing from forty feet away. The path between them was striped with fire, but that was nothing to the joy and astonishment of hearing a living voice. If she stayed she would die, and burning was not a death she had ever looked for. Behind her she heard the distinct crack-boom of more trees exploding. She rushed between branches. Some of them were half turned to ash already, and only her nimblefootedness saved her. And then not so nimble. Dancing away from a treacherous precipice, she stepped directly into fire.

 

Like any animal she jumped out at once, but her burned foot was in agony, and it buckled underneath her as she leapt away. Her other foot found only air, and then she was slipping, falling, fever-warm bark sliding beneath her hands without giving purchase, and then there was cloth, and skin, and a hand, Celeneth’s strong hand, heaving her up.

 

“It is only a little further,” she yelled in her ear, and putting Tauriel’s arm over her shoulders she half-dragged, half-carried her across the burning branches. Ahead of them she saw—a young willow not yet consumed by the flames, with a long low branch that overhung the river; the river that glistened like moonlight and salvation, and Tauriel had never seen anything so beautiful. For there were survivors in the river, guards that had escaped the fire. One, two dozen, perhaps—too few, but those few were amazingly, impossibly alive. She shook off Celeneth’s arm and fell heedless into the water.

 

If there was grace to be had, Tauriel abandoned it; she thrashed into chest-high water to meet them. Her guards rushed out to meet her halfway, sending water splashing up over her head. She was still sputtering when she was seized by a joyous tangle of arms, pulled thither and yon until she feared she might slip under the waves.

 

“Enough!” She was laughing. Her burned foot, which had been temporarily forgotten between the cool of the water and the joy of seeing her guards alive, was making itself known again.

 

“I do not think there can be any more hope of survivors,” said Celeneth, approaching them more slowly through the water. “The blaze has grown impossibly hot. But then, I thought the same just before I found you, Captain.” She looked a question at Tauriel.

 

 _Yes_ , Tauriel wanted to say. _Go! Find my guards and bring them back to me._ She looked into the fire, climbing now higher than the tallest trees. Burning embers fell into the water, hissing.

 

“There is hope,” she said. “But not there.”

 

“By the grace of the stars,” said one of the guards, turning to stare awestruck at the fire raging on the shore. It cast oddly moving shadows onto the river’s surface, as if dark shapes were swimming underneath. “We survived.”

 

Celeneth turned also. Her profile was grave. “I suppose I will try for gratitude. Yet—”

 

Tauriel understood. There was no more room in her for sorrow. Dolorian she had watched die this day, and Belegorn. Of his brother Mirdanion there was no sign; they would surely wake in Valinor together. Nor did she see Dulindir—was that strange, that his absence should hurt so? She found herself speaking.

 

“Try for joy.”

 

They looked at her. The fire was reflected in their eyes. Dark shadows moved all around them.

 

“Joy,” she said again. Her voice was scratchy from smoke. “Joy that Mirkwood still stands, and that dawn will come. The joy of fire. The joy of victory.”

 

She could feel the shift in their mood, something heavy being lifted away. Celeneth began to smile, her eyes warming into a laugh. Tauriel was looking at her, and so she saw the moment that her eyes stopped laughing. Without sound or warning she dropped straight down, an axe buried in the back of her head. The shadow behind her rose up out of the water, up and up into—

 

 _They do not swim_ , she thought desperately, pleadingly. _Please, it cannot be—_

 

—the snarled figure of an orc.

 

“A pretty speech,” it said. “Joy. We feel it.”

 

More shadows were rising up in their midst. Just beside her, Heledir choked, a knifepoint emerging from her throat. Tauriel grabbed for her, but she was already slipping away into the water. Her murderer stood just behind. Unreasoning rage consumed her. She forgot about her swords, her deadly training. Tauriel leapt at him like an animal. Her world narrowed down to her nails, digging into his scaly throat, seeking his lifeblood. She would claw it out of him with her own hands, she would make him pay, make him _bleed_ …three sets of claws dragged her off him. Tauriel struck out at them, mindless, furious. She heard them laugh. A body floated by her.

 

Fire danced madly on the shore, casting her vision in red and black. Through the flickering haze she saw the lead orc speak.

 

“This one we take alive,” it said, and snapped out with a fist. Her head was filled with pain, her vision going black. She was only aware of hitting the water.

 

* * *

 

There was a pressure on her head that would not cease. She could not quite open her eyes. Breathing was difficulty enough; she settled for that. The buzzing in her ears became an annoyance, and then a source of pain, and then, indistinctly, words. Someone was speaking directly above her in a rough growl that grated harshly on her ears. And then another spoke, from further away, smooth and cruelly amused.

 

She knew that voice.

 

_Thranduil._

 

It was hard to focus on the words, as if he was standing on some far distant shore. The pressure on the top of her head tightened, and Tauriel realized that it was a hand, an orc hand, grasping her hair painfully. A sharp point tickled at her throat. She didn’t care. She could only listen to Thranduil’s voice.

 

And as if the sound of it was a rope pulling her back from consciousness, other sensations returned to her. Her knees were wet; her hands, painfully numb. She was aware of a sharp, sour sensation like the scent of thunder. Effortfully she opened her eyes.

 

It took her a moment to understand who she was looking at. She was kneeling down at the edge of the river, her hands bound painfully behind her. The hand grasping her hair was forcing her head down. All she could see was the dark water below. Her breath rippled the surface, and then the image returned. The face in the water was her own reflection.

 

The Tauriel in the water looked dead already, painted in dark colors. One half of her face was a massive bruise, her eyes and lips swollen. There was no peace in her gaze.

 

Tauriel understood then that she was going to die.

 

At that moment the orc raised her savagely up by the hair, the knife pressing ever more closely against her throat. The abrupt motion sent pain exploding behind her eyes. They shut without her volition, some part of her wishing to curl into the darkness and escape the agony. But there was no escape from the sound of it, elven voices gasping in horror from across the river, and one voice she could have heard from the very halls of death.

 

“Tauriel!”

 

Thranduil cried her name, and his voice was full of pain and fear. Her heart suddenly hammered into life within her limp body. The pain she had thought she had felt was nothing to this, nothing. Somehow his pain had become her own. It filled her until she wished to weep from it, if only she had the strength for tears.

 

The orc voice spoke again, gloating, and Tauriel knew suddenly that she had been wrong, that they did not intend for her to die after all. How they knew of the king’s love for her, she could not guess. But somehow they did know, and intended to bargain her life for…for…

 

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream. If only these orcs knew how little her life was worth, how burdened was her soul, how withered her heart, they would have left her die in disgust. But Thranduil knew all these things and loved her anyway. She wished she knew why. She wished she had asked him, all the way back before the end began. But now there was no time; there had never been enough time. And even worse than the cry of her name on his lips was his silence. _I would make any bargain, pay any price…_

 

No, she thought suddenly. It was her first clear thought. _I will not allow Thranduil to make this choice_.

 

Noble reasons came into her mind—to save Mirkwood, to die with honor, but those would have been lies. And she could not lie to herself now. There was one reason, and it was the only one she needed. If this was her doom, then it was a cruel one, to understand only now that—

 

That she loved him.

 

She loved Thranduil. It felt as if her chest was exploding, as if she was filling up with light with every gasping breath. Nothing was right, nothing made sense except that she loved him. Had she always felt this way, and her heart simply too empty and broken to know it? Or had she only fallen right then and there, with death at her throat and pain on all sides?

 

It made no matter. Two chances at love were more than she deserved, and she had squandered them both. She had fallen once too quickly and once too late, and she bitterly, bitterly hated herself. But at least she would not give her beloved any more pain. Just one last burst of agony, like a cauterizing flame, and it would be over for him. _Be brave_ , she thought. _I love you…_

 

Her eyes opened. She wanted to look at him for one last time. But her vision blurred and fractured. It might have been exhaustion clouding her vision, or perhaps some careless tears. She could not even see the other shore of the river. But she saw _him_. She saw Thranduil, exhausted in silver armor. She saw Thranduil, his heart written on his face, his hand reaching out. His face was a bright flame burning in the distance.

 

The sight of it made her breathing easy. She closed her eyes and tried to think of a prayer, some last plea to the Valar, but all she could think was how sorry she would be not to see Thranduil again. She jerked forward, hard, against the knife edge.

 

Consciousness dissolved in a spray of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your comments and kudos. See you next time!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing a bit fast and loose with the official chronology here, but uh, I've also been ignoring everything canon has ever said about elf sexuality so....Enjoy, and thanks for your patience.

Her throat was a desert. She woke gasping in the dark, her limbs heavy as if she had been sleeping for a long, long time. But now her thirst would not let her sleep, or even breathe without pain. She tried to call out for water and found only dust in her mouth; she drew a breath, choked, coughed. There was a sensation of sudden movement at her side, as if someone had abruptly awoken. In the dark she saw a pale face coming nearer, the eyes turned to black blurs above an opening mouth.

 

Tauriel screamed, lashing out with her useless, heavy limbs. Her eyes, too dry for tears, burned instead. She had thought death would bring peace. She had thought there would be an end to war and fighting, but instead her enemies were here with her. There was no end.

 

Light burst into the dark world, pressing painfully against her eyes. _Fire_ , she thought, panicked. She closed her eyes against it, crying out hysterically, fear crawling in through her veins and driving out her breath in harsh quick bursts. Something grabbed hold of her thrashing arms and held them down against her chest. Tauriel screamed again, and this time another voice rose with hers.

 

“Captain! Captain, open your eyes. It’s me.”

 

Tauriel twisted in that grasp, helpless as a caught animal. She knew that voice. But that was impossible…

 

She opened her eyes.

 

Elanor stood before her, fatigued and bruised, but alive. Slowly, Tauriel looked around. By the dim light of a lantern, she could see that she was lying in sturdy pallet, blankets strewn on the floor from when she had kicked them off during the struggle. Tendrils of roots curled out from the ceiling. What she had taken to be a wall was in fact an enormous root. They were in the root-cave of a tree, if she had to guess. The only thing she could be sure of was that this was not Mandos. They were, somehow, both alive.

 

She touched Elanor’s face.

 

“H-how?” Her voice was a shadow, and it hurt to speak even that much. Elanor lifted water to Tauriel’s lips before she answered.

 

“You sent me away, remember? Steady, now.”

 

Water dripped down her chin, past her cheeks. Tauriel could feel herself shivering, either from the cool of the water or from the enormity of her thirst. Life was returning to her with every sip of the green-tasting water. Even with all she could do to restrain herself, the water was quickly gone. Tauriel licked at her lips, panting.

 

“Thank you,” she said. “Elanor—” She paused, not quite sure how to frame the question.

 

“No,” said Elanor gently. “No one else survived the fire.”

 

Tauriel drew in a sharp breath. Wetness was gathering in her eyes, the room sliding in and out of focus. She reached out to grab for Elanor’s hand.

 

“You did,” she said, forcing out the words past the torment of her throat. “That’s—enough.”

 

A tear landed on their linked hands. It might have belonged to either of them. And then that sensation faded away, followed shortly by the rest of the world.

 

She slept.

 

This time when she woke, it was gradually, to a golden feeling that was growing ever brighter in her mind. Even in her dreams she knew it was Thranduil, there with her. Her hand reached out for his before she even opened her eyes.

 

“My lord,” she whispered.

 

Thranduil’s eyes were dark with emotion. “My lady,” he replied. He touched her questing hand lightly. “My dearest heart…”

 

The words were on her lips: _I love you_. Before she could unlock her tongue to say them, Thranduil leaned forward, visibly swallowing, and asked:

 

“Will you forgive me?”

 

Tauriel paused, uncertain. His expression twisted at her silence. The words came as if wrung from him with a fishhook.

 

“I know I do not deserve it,” he said. “I know I do not deserve you. I can only claim to have loved you, and that is something I have done by instinct, like an animal looking for warmth and light in a dark wood. I could not have stopped myself from loving you any more than a compass can avoid the true north. It was no great deed of mine that you came into my life.” His voice turned bitter. “Indeed, better for you if I had not loved you at all.”

 

“That is not true!”

 

“But it is,” said Thranduil, eyes ablaze. “I hurt you the very night that I first told you that I loved you.” His gaze rested on her cheek, where she had a very pale, very thin scar. “And when I saw you in the grip of those orcs—” For the first time, his voice faltered. “I…I thought that _I_ might die, or go mad. I would have preferred that to seeing what you did then…and knowing that it was my fault. That if I had been truer, or braver, you could have trusted me to be your king and not your lover. But instead you—you would have died.”

 

“But I didn’t.”

 

“You thought you would. You intended to. It is all the same!” His voice roughened to a shaky growl. “I drove you to it—”

 

“Stop speaking of me as if I was dead!”

 

Despite his restraining hand, Tauriel struggled upright.

 

“We cannot dwell on the past,” she said, struggling for breath after her exertions. “There is too much ahead of us to look back.”

 

The expression on his face was of wild, sudden hope. It occurred to her that she had not seen him like this in years.

 

“Then, Tauriel,” he began haltingly. “Do you—?”

 

“Thranduil,” she said. “Thranduil, I will always forgive you.”

 

There was not much strength left in her, but she held onto Thranduil’s hands with all of what little she had. Bringing her fingers to his lips, he kissed them with infinite gentleness.

 

They spoke of other things then. The war had continued as she slept; in Dale and Erebor, they had broken free of their siege. Wild rumors of enormous beasts and vengeful ghosts came out of the south. And in golden Lothlorien, they had routed their enemies and were pursuing them back to Dol Guldur itself.

 

“We are to join that battle,” said Thranduil, low. He paused, looking at her. He did not ask her if he should stay with her, nor would she have let him. Still, it was a close run thing.

 

“I will return here when it is done,” he promised her instead, in his low resonant voice. Tauriel shook her head. She had no desire to let him see her bedridden like this ever again.

 

“No. Return home,” she said to him. “Return victorious. Our people need you.” His hands were very warm in hers. She opened her mouth to continue, but his gaze caught her and unbalanced her. Suddenly she could not speak.

 

There was a small, hesitant knock on the door.

 

“Enter,” Thranduil called, without looking away from Tauriel’s eyes. Somewhere in the background of his starlit gaze, Tauriel was dimly aware of a soldier slipping inside. His armor was wet, as if it was raining outside.

 

“Sire,” he began, without much conviction.

 

“My generals sent you,” Thranduil murmured, before the soldier could say anything further. He brushed back loose strands from Tauriel’s face. “I must go.”

 

She lifted her chin up proudly.

 

“Go. I will see you when the war is won.”

 

His lips brushed hers once, briefly, before he rose in a whisper of silver and steel. The king of the Mirkwood strode out her door without looking back. The soldier, lingering behind, sketched her a quick and nervous bow before he, too, went out to war. Tauriel watched them go without regret. If her part in the war was over, she could only be glad for it.

 

The next morning, to her vast irritation, she found that Thranduil had left his healers behind.

 

Guards and healers disliked each other on principle. Dolorian had always said that healers loathed to actually practice their skills, while Tauriel had thought privately that guards simply hated being told to sit still and recover—

 

But of course, Dolorian was dead, and there were few now left of the guards who were still within a healer’s power to help. Tauriel sat quietly as the healers exchanged her old bandages for fresh. Their hands were cool and gentle, and she gradually felt herself lulled into a half-dreaming state. Through the haze of sleep she could distantly hear the wet sticky sound of her bandages being removed from her skin, but there was no pain. She was floating above it.

 

Past her lowered eyelashes she saw the shadows darken and blur into a viscous mass, a darkness that crept up the walls and came sloshing over the edges of her cot. It washed over her and swept her down, endlessly down, into dark water.

 

She slept as one dead, and woke feeling unrested. And gradually, every day and night became the same. Day by day, her wounds healed and became whole. Night after night, she dreamed of dark water.

 

“I do not need to lie still,” she found herself saying, over and again, to her unimpressed healers. She needed—what she needed was—

 

She threw herself onto her cot in frustration, panting a little despite her words. What she needed was to return home. What she needed was Thranduil.

 

Every day she walked a little farther and a little farther still. Her room was shut by a crudely fashioned door. Beyond it she found that the tree’s root-cave went a little farther still. There was a storeroom filled with old tanned skins, dried meat, and bowstaves, and another room where the team of healers settled their cots. It was a humble place to live, and with a sinking feeling Tauriel realized that it must be the home of Grawion the hunter, who had aided them against the orcs. It was an ill way to repay him for that service, to turn him out of his own home, surely the only one in this part of the forest that was untouched by the fire.

 

“He was honored to do it, as I suspect you know,” said one of the healers. They were outside for the first time in weeks. It was her first sight of the world she had remade in fire.

 

The rich undergrowth was gone; brambles and vines turned into a layer of ash a finger width deep, even after torrential rains had hammered at it. Out of that grayness rose the bare and blackened trunks of trees like nameless grave markers. Broken spars marked where a thousand year old giant had succumbed to her fire. The brilliantly blue day that shone down upon the scene seemed almost garish.

 

The healer was staring at her as she took it all in, as if he expected her at any moment to break apart or collapse. It made her nostrils flare, but Tauriel said nothing. She could hardly blame her healers for not failing to notice her restlessness. She was nearly as strong—at least for short periods of time—as she had been before the war, and without venom or infection to hold back her progress, her wounds were healing apace. If only her patience could repair itself so quickly.

 

The canter of hoofbeats drew her out of grey thoughts. A moment later a messenger in a green cloak rode out from between the trees.

 

He rode at an easy pace, the horse beneath him picking up his hooves as if to go faster. Tauriel recognized them both, horse and rider; the messenger was one she had seen before in court, and the horse was the same golden colt that had carried her to battle.

 

Horseback, the messenger bowed to her and dismounted.

 

“Elion,” she said, recalling his name, and nodded to him in welcome. “What news?”

 

The news was of glorious battle, it seemed. Tauriel listened to him describe it: great armies sweeping toward each other in rippling waves, the sun blazing off the drawn swords of elves like a fiery light, the Lady of Lothlorien and the king of the Mirkwood riding at their head. Ranged on the other side were brutes; goblins and orcs and enormous abominations, captained all by a black rider, his fell beast circling above, screaming in a terrible voice—

 

Here the messenger stopped, collecting himself.

 

“And then Lord Thranduil slew it,” he continued baldly. “He and the Lady faced its rider—”

 

It had been a mighty duel, apparently, and when it was over Galadriel cleansed the foul pits of Dol Guldur with her own light and enchantment, so that no dark creatures would ever lurk there again. Tauriel listened to all this, unmoved as if it had happened to someone she did not know. That was a level of power that she had never aspired to. She found that her thoughts turned in another direction these days.

 

“…And I am told to bring back a report on your health, my lady.”

 

“I’m fine,” she said absently. She was stroking the golden colt, who snuffed at her hair.

 

“Er,” said Elion, glancing over at the healer beside her.

 

“We can discuss it inside, perhaps,” he suggested.

 

“Discuss it all you like,” said Tauriel, coming to a sudden decision. She swung herself onto the colt, which pricked his ears and turned willingly for home. A smile spread over her mouth at the shocked expressions on their faces. She suddenly felt better than she had in weeks. “He can see me for himself.”

 

Sunlight poured down like honey out of a jar, pooling thickly on the crown of her head and her shoulders. She tipped her head back into golden light. It shone down on a starkly barren landscape, but when she closed her eyes she only felt warmth. For the first time in months, birds were singing. It was spring again.

 

Her passage through the woods must have been reported upon, because when she turned her horse into the main entrance of the palace, Thranduil was already waiting for her, uncrowned and barefoot.

 

Tauriel dismounted. There was something fluttering madly in her throat that she dared not name. Not yet. Instead she went directly to him and kissed him.

 

He was dressed in silk, as pale and clean as starlight, and she was wrapped in leather so grimed with blood and dirt that it would never wash out. But he kissed her back, out there on the steps of his halls, out there in the glorious sunlight, out there within sight of anyone who cared to see. His hand dropped to her waist, and when she pulled back it went to her hand. He gazed at her like he wanted to kiss her again.

 

“My lord,” she said to him in greeting, and went to stable her horse. She was a Captain of the Guard, and a captain did not expect servants to take care of her business.

 

When she was washed and clean, she went to him.

 

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his unbound hair falling around bare shoulders. She entered without knocking. The look in his eyes made her heart want to stop beating.

 

“Thranduil,” she said. “I—” she bit off the rest. “I’ve come home,” she said instead.

 

He wrapped his hands around her wrists and pulled her down.

 

“Yes,” he said. “You _are_ home.” And then there was no speaking for a while.

 

* * *

 

Days passed. Tauriel and Thranduil passed them together. They mourned the dead, praised their memories, and buried their bodies. Urgent notes passed back and forth between Mirkwood, Dale, and by unspoken extension, Erebor, followed shortly by mutual aid: materials from Mirkwood, food from Dale. Tauriel was sick of dried meat, even if she had hunted most of it herself. She was glad enough to trade it, if only for fish and corn. She was satisfied also to see elf craftsmen leave for Dale. The twice-rebuilt city would be the work of men and dwarves and elves, together.

 

News arrived as well, of less welcome variety.

 

“Bard was coroneted, I am told, in the midst of battle,” said Thranduil one moonless night, his arm curled around her back. His hand was absently caressing the scar where her wound had been. Their skin was still fever-warm from their lovemaking a moment before.

 

Tauriel had already known that the grandson of Bard, _her_ Bard, was dead. “They say the new king is the very image of his namesake.”

 

Thranduil’s voice turned bitter. “Such is the only immortality that men receive, to have poor ghosts of themselves for descendants. They may keep it.”

 

“There are elves that cannot say they had even that small comfort.”

 

“Yes,” said Thranduil, and then, “I was sorry to hear of your guard. Dolorian.”

 

Tauriel held her breath and loosed it little by little. “As was I,” she said, looking at the dim ceiling. “And for all the rest of them. I suppose their ashes are with the forest now.”

 

“It is not such a bad fate.”

 

“To be one with the forest? No, it is not. But the forest is gone now also. I burned it away. Who can say what will grow back? The world had been made so different, Thranduil.”

 

Tauriel drifted for a while in her own thoughts. After a moment, she realized that she had never been given a response. She twisted around.

 

“Thranduil?”

 

He had been gazing at her profile in silence, some unspoken thought knitting his brows together. As if at her prompting, he seemed to make a decision. In a sudden movement his hands were around her waist. Tauriel found herself abruptly on her feet, swept out of bed with her sheets still tangled around her shoulders. She steadied herself with her hands flat against his bare chest, looked up and drew a sharp breath. His eyes were like—like—the heart of some star. She could nearly feel the heat of his gaze on her face. He said,

 

“I want to show you something.” Taking her by the hands, he led her out onto the balcony.

 

It was a moonless night, and some lingering smoke high in the air clouded the light of the stars. That did not make it easier: Tauriel had hardly been able to look at the forest since she had arrived at the palace. But she kept her eyes open, because Thranduil wanted her to.

 

She saw a ruin of fire. Great swatches of brownness and deadness spread out across the woods that she loved. Brush and saplings had been charred into oblivion, never to bloom again with spring. The once thick forest canopy was a desolation of burned and black trunks, stripped of leaf and branch alike. Days and nights had once been spent, and misspent, within the curving shelter of those branches. They had faithfully held the silent memory of laughter and comradery. But it was all gone now; the trees, her friends, the world, and her place in it. A bitter taste twisted her mouth. She turned away, but Thranduil caught her by the shoulders and faced her.

 

Starlight seemed to shine upon him more brightly than upon ordinary beings. It lit up his eyes like the sight of a lover. He kissed both her trembling eyelids.

 

“Look again,” he said.

 

And Tauriel looked again. It seemed now that some shroud had fallen from her eyes, or that some part of her had changed, for the night that she looked out on was quite different. An infinitely delicate netting of green had settled like dew upon the forest far below. Her heart raced. She leaned forward, suddenly aware that she was could somehow see further and clearer than she had before. Colors were brighter, even in the dark, and green brightest of all.

 

From the fire had come growth. The scabs of every fallen branch bristled with a dozen young buds, each striving for light and life. Ivy and fern curled tentatively upward from the ashy soil. Even the fallen logs were bursting with the bright hopeful green of new growth. Everywhere she looked, there was life. Tauriel had forgotten what she should not have. The Mirkwood had been darkened, shadowed, cursed—but always, and forever, alive.

 

And as if they had been waiting for her to see it, a white sea of flowers sprang into blossom beneath her, an endless breathtaking sight. They rustled in the wind like an innocent sigh. The garden glittered in her splintering vision. She looked back at Thranduil, wordless and glad for it. No speech could have contained her gratitude.

 

“You see,” he said softly, “some things are the same.”

 

They stood there together until the sun chased them back into bed. It was a fine, clear morning, sweet as chilled wine, and Tauriel and Thranduil whiled it away with their hands in each other’s hair. Eventually they collapsed into each other, spent. Tauriel could smell her own sweat on his skin. It made her smile. She shifted a little against his chest and stifled a yawn. The strength of the full noontime sun was bursting in through the windows, chastising her out of bed. Thranduil murmured a sleepy protest as she extricated herself from his arms.

 

Tauriel dressed herself, for the first time, in front of Thranduil’s ornate silver-and-ebony mirrors.

 

She had a new collection of scars for the court seamstresses to sigh over; a jagged line all the way down her ribs, the tight shiny skin of the burn on her foot, a pitted wound on the back of her left hand that she had no memory of taking. But they paled in comparison to the deep, grim ruin of her throat. She ran her fingers over it as she dressed. This one, she knew, would never heal.

 

She did not want it to.

 

* * *

 

It was several weeks into the heart of spring. The trees were bursting frenziedly into leaf, and Celeborn of Lothlorien came to meet with the king of the Greenwood.

 

"Likely the same request as ever," said Thranduil with distaste, in reply to her question. "Lothlorien has been eager to expand into our southern borders for centuries now."

 

"Will we let them?" Tauriel asked. He looked at her in surprise, and she went on. "I care not for those shadowed lands, and you and I know that we have not the strength to patrol it as we once did. And I would rather have an ally guarding our southern border than to risk that creatures of darkness come creeping back." She paused. "It is only land."

 

"That land was the land of my father," he said, reflexive.

 

"We lost much of it to the darkness long ago," Tauriel answered him. She squeezed his hand when he gave no answer, and let the conversation drop as Celeborn came into view.

 

He came alone, if a retinue of several dozen could be counted as such. He came without Galadriel. A very slight softening of the lines around his mouth told Tauriel that this relieved Thranduil, even if he would never admit it.

 

There was drinking, of course, and dancing. Several of the more daring or drunk on both sides had organized an impromptu poetry contest. A loud cheering swiveled every head in the room, and a ring of spectators began to gather. A group of soldiers had pushed one of their fellows out onto the contest floor with a cheerful lack of pity. His cheeks were faintly pink, either from drink or embarrassment. He downed the rest of his wine in a quick gulp and began:

 

_This tree I planted long ago_

_Year by year I watched it grow_

_I’d seen you in the woods that spring_

_Although the ground was soft with snow_

_Now summer adds another ring_

_You are not here, another sting_

_Birds are nesting in the leaves_

_They cannot match the way you sing_

_Am I the only one that grieves_

_For lonely morns and empty eves?_

_I curl beneath the tree and weep_

_Autumn comes down on me in sheaves_

_In bitter cold I go to sleep_

_Frost comes now in steady creep_

_But then from winter’s long exile_

_Comes warmth, and your footstep’s sweep_

_My heart thinks I have run a mile_

_My wits have run out with my guile_

_I wait, struck silent by your glow_

_You stop beneath the tree, and smile_

 

The spectators stomped and whistled their appreciation. Some of the Galadhrim had gone into a murmured huddle, and after a moment’s deliberation a slim maiden stepped forward to meet this challenge. Bright-eyed, she folded her hands together and spoke in a clear, sweet voice.

 

_How bright the morn that shines upon the sea,_

_Awakens all the world to piercing light,_

_Illuminates an end to endless night,_

_And warms the hands of those who would be free_

_As certain sure as leaf returns to tree_

_So hope arises as a sea birds flight_

_Beneath the restless waves of frothing white_

_Are washed away the whole of war’s debris_

_Then morning passes, shadows growing long_

_Such weariness descends when day is done_

_That eyes look longing at the setting sun_

_Across the water, where the welcome song_

_Makes light the long and weary road to roam;_

_To leave Lothlórien, yet dream of home._

 

Tauriel, Thranduil, and Celeborn slipped away together amidst the applause. If Thranduil was as disturbed by the poem as she was, he did not show it.

 

“Perhaps we may talk in the study,” he suggested. Thranduil had not gone into the lovely solarium, with its matchless views, since Galadriel had come there years ago. The windows in the study revealed only the spreading gardens around them. Tauriel gazed out into the silently falling night as Thranduil poured wine for them all. Celeborn did not disdain the wine as his wife had. He raised his glass to the two of them, and they all drank together.

 

Tauriel did not hesitate once they had set the glasses down. If there was a silent sword hanging over the conversation, she did not intend to let it stay there.

 

“Lord Celeborn, may I inquire after the health of Lady Galadriel?” She ignored the sudden coldness radiating from Thranduil at her side. “We were greatly looking forward to seeing her again.”

 

Celeborn paused, and then his hand closed around the wineglass again, gripping it tightly.

 

“Lady Galadriel will not be coming here again,” he said, with finality. “I regret that I cannot pass on your well-wishes to her.”

 

Tauriel, shocked, had nothing to say to this. She sensed an alertness in Thranduil, a kind of relief—or disappointment. After a while Celeborn continued, with a visible effort.

 

“My lady wife has gone to the Undying Lands, together with the other ringbearers. I…do not doubt that I will soon follow her.” His knuckles tightened around the stem of the glass. Her own hands twitched in sympathy. The separation, the loss, the distance of the wide western ocean….nothing, she was sure, could be more painful.

 

“You must miss her greatly, my lord,” said Tauriel in a soft voice.

 

“I do,” he said simply. “We have not been apart since her people first came to these shores. But it is not that. I have pledged to stay and watch over my people for as long as they are here—and I believe that will not be long. With the rings of power gone from Middle-Earth, I fear our beloved forests have grown dim and gray to our sight. Places that we once loved no longer hold their enchantment. We all find it so.”

 

Tauriel and Thranduil exchanged the most fleeting of glances while their guest looked down at his wine morosely. Each knew what the other was thinking: their woods, which had never seen the power of a ring, had never been more green and alive.

 

Hastily they began to speak of other things, the business of kings and lords; borders, treaties, names and contracts. Tauriel drifted away from the conversation. If Celeborn wanted those bloodstained lands below the mountains, he was welcome to them. She was too conscious of what they had lost to keep them to want them now.

 

At last, while the moon crept upwards into the small hours of the night, they had their agreement. They signed with ink and blood, pricking their fingers on a small, sharp knife. Celeborn’s people would have the southern woods. Silently Tauriel wished them good fortune of it. Too many had died in those lands. No white flowers would ever grow there again. What was the worth of such a place?

 

“Will you come rejoin the festivities?” she asked instead.

 

“Alas, my lady,” said Celeborn, with a waning smile. “The hour is late. I must plead tiredness.” He presented her with a perfectly proper bow, and then with his retreating back. Tauriel wondered if he had always been less vital than Galadriel, or if her absence took something of his substance away from him, as if some part of him was drawn westward to where she was, as if he would not be whole again until they were reunited across the sea.

 

Something about the thought, an instinctive horror, made a shudder run down Tauriel’s back. Her hand clasped down tight on the nearest object. Thranduil gave a soft grunt.

 

“Might I keep my hand, Tauriel?” he asked dryly. “You might like it better attached to my arm.”

 

“What?” she asked, and looked down. Without wholly realizing it, she had taken Thranduil’s hand firmly within her own. Her fingers were white; his, rather red. She loosened her grip. Thranduil stretched out his fingers, inspecting her all the while.

 

“Are you alright, Tauriel?”

 

“Yes,” she said, a little too quickly. But then, she couldn’t explain the fear that had come over her just then. “I was just thinking—I mean—shall we return? You are not tired, are you?”

 

“No,” said Thranduil slowly, still eyeing her closely. Tauriel neverminded that. She took him by the hand again, more gently now, and led him back to the feast.

 

Truthfully it wasn’t much of a feast anymore, as food had largely been forgotten in favor of wine. About half the room was dancing, while the other half engaged in ill-advised feats of strength and wit, both Mirkwood elves and the Galadhrim eager to show off for the other. The poetry contest, of course, was still in full swing. Other contestants had since taken the floor, but the Mirkwood soldier and the slim Galadhrim poet were deep in conversation over a bottle of wine. So, too, were Elanor and the pretty Galadhrim handmaiden she had met when Galadriel was here. Tauriel looked out onto the hall and remembered a time when Dolorian had been dancing with her, flirting outrageously just to keep a smile on her face.

 

“Would you honor me with a dance?” asked a low voice in her ear.

 

She spun out of memories to look into Thranduil’s face. His expression was as grave as usual, but his eyes were full of light. Tauriel let a smile come slowly to her lips.

 

“I suppose,” she said airily, and was rewarded by his low, brief chuckle. She laid her hand in his, and curled the other over his broad shoulder. They stepped in time to the music, his hand warm at her waist. Thranduil moved with the same wolflike grace she remembered from countless duels. She realized with a jolt that this was the first time they had danced together. That felt—impossible. Something about this, and the way they spun around each other, seemed so endlessly familiar.

 

Other dancers swirled around them, giving her the brief impression that they were in the center of a storm, where the only still point was the circle of their arms. Then the tempo changed. The music became something faster, wilder, and without warning Thranduil spun her around in his arms, his feet moving quickly to follow her. The ends of her hair and the hem of his silver cloak lifted as they turned, tracing a circle without end in the air around them.

 

But all too soon, it did end, the music coming to its conclusion. The dancers turned and applauded the musicians, who bowed. Tauriel was smiling at Thranduil.

 

“That was wonderful. Do you dance often, my lord?” she teased.

 

“No,” he said. Tauriel blinked at the brusqueness. After a moment, she felt his hands relax in hers. “Not since my wife died.”

 

It was the first time he had ever mentioned her. Tauriel stiffened, suddenly feeling awkward and inadequate. She tried to think of something to say, but when she looked into his face, he was smiling, without trace of grief or sadness.

 

“Another?” he asked lightly, and the moment faded as the music began again.

 

Two more days of revelry saw the Galadhrim on their way, a little more stumbling and disheveled than when they had arrived, and many discreet and not so discreet bottles of Mirkwood wine stored inside cloaks and saddlebags. Tauriel didn’t bother to hide her grin at this.

 

Thranduil, on the other hand, looked oddly melancholy as he watched them go. She could not understand why.

 

“If we are giving them the southern portion of our forest,” Tauriel asked tentatively, “then surely this means that means that we will see them more often. Are you not glad to become better friends with the Galadhrim?”

 

“I am,” he said, low. “For as long as they will stay here.”

 

The strange troubled tone in his voice made it impossible to say anything that would give him comfort. She stroked his arm instead. Side by side they watched the retinue disappear into the greening forest. There were many things to get done, the normal order of life and kingdom disrupted by the visit. Still, neither of them moved to break the moment, enjoying too much the calmness, the quiet, the subtle twine of her fingers in his. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, she would speak—

 

She still had not told him that she loved him.

 

But before the sun had risen the next day, Legolas Greenleaf had returned to Mirkwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First poem is much inspired by Stopping By The Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost. Second poem is a Petrachan sonnet. As always, thank you for your comments. They mean a great deal to me.


	13. Chapter 13

At first they could only stare. Tauriel had been restringing her bow, which had somehow come through the fire intact, and at the sight of him her hands entirely forgot what they were doing. Beside her, Elanor and the scant few that remained of the guard were equally stunned and silent.

 

He was travel-worn, the dust of many roads staining his cloak. His bow was of only a vaguely familiar make. The braids in his hair, which she had known almost as well as her own, were also different, and she had never seen that strangely uncertain look on her prince’s face before. And his eyes, of course, were fixed on the red ruin of her throat. But he held his head in the same way, and the shape of his hands were his. Tauriel knew that Legolas had come back at last.

 

The silence lasted only a moment, and then Tauriel let out a whoop, swinging himself into his arms as if no time in the world had passed.

 

His answering laugh was exactly as she remembered. He spun her around wildly while she wrapped her arms around the steady warmth of his shoulders. When at last he set her down, they had to cling to each other to keep their balance, dizzy. He looked at her and smiled.

 

“So,” he said, very simply. “What have I missed?”

 

“Oh, nothing exciting,” she said with a grin. “Except that we fought off an army, and I nearly burned the entire forest to the ground—”

 

“Is this supposed to shock me?” he laughed, and Tauriel pounded him on the shoulder.

 

“And you, what have you been doing, we’ve heard the strangest rumors—”

 

“None so strange as what actually happened, I hope—”

 

“As if it could be otherwise! What is that new bow?”

 

“I should ask you the same!”

 

“You first!”

 

“Would you believe that the lady Galadriel gave it to me? But, Tauriel, you would certainly not believe what she gave to my dwarf friend—”

 

“What? A dwarf?”

 

“Tauriel, you must meet him.”

 

“Of course I must! But is it true that you saw an Oliphant?”

 

“Saw one! More than that—”

 

They were spinning around again, laughing and talking over each other, and they both saw Thranduil standing at the top of the palace stairs at the same time.

 

All of Legolas’ attention was immediately on him.

 

“Father,” he said formally, dropping her hands. “I have returned.”

 

Thranduil’s voice, when he answered, was thick.

 

“My son,” he managed, and Legolas surged up the stairs to meet him. There he stopped, hesitant, his hands fidgeting on the folds of his cloak. It was Thranduil who stepped forward and draw him into a tight embrace.

 

Tauriel watched the joy and astonishment on Legolas’ face as Thranduil murmured something to him. After a moment Legolas returned the hug in full measure. She walked up to join them, pausing only a few steps away. Father and son broke apart, the latter turning delighted eyes on Tauriel.

 

“You must have dinner with us tonight,” Legolas said to her, before she could speak. “I have so much to tell you both.”

 

An awkward pause fell over them all, her smile collapsing in on itself. Tauriel and Thranduil had dined together in their private chambers near every night for the past seventy years. It had not even occurred to her that she would not have been invited to dinner. She was sure that her thoughts must have been showing on her face. Legolas was looking between her and his father. Whatever he saw in Thranduil’s expression made a sudden understanding, or perhaps a sudden memory of a rumor, flush into his face.

 

“That is,” he said, not looking either of them in the eye, “if you’re willing to join us.”

 

“Of, of course.” The words were stilted and strange in her mouth, the easy comradery of only a few moments ago gone. “I would be happy to.”

 

She could think of nothing further to say. Legolas only stared at her, his face revealing nothing and by that, everything. He had to have known, of course, these recent years—her relationship with Thranduil had not escaped Strider’s notice when he had come here, and Tauriel had all but begged him to tell Legolas. Yet hearing of it and standing in the middle of it were two very different things.

 

The sunlight felt lukewarm on her face. She was not so naïve, anymore, to wish for uncomplicated happiness. Erebor had taught her better, and if it had not, Mirkwood’s war had. There had been a time when she had longed with all her heart for Legolas to return, but somehow she had always failed to envision what it might look like. Perhaps in her imaginings the two of them were how they used to be, sitting silently side-by-side in the arms of a high tree above all the world, and neither of them had yet been to war. Tauriel looked into her prince’s face and realized that they might never have that again.

 

And then Legolas smiled suddenly, like the sun coming out of a cloud. “It is good to be home again,” he said, all sincerity; Tauriel could not detect any lie in him. “I will see you tonight.”

 

Tauriel made some response—and then he was gone, seeking his own quarters, disappearing from view.

 

“Shouldn’t we say something to him?” she offered, a little helpless. She looked at Thranduil and found little there in the way of answers. His expression was clouded with something like despair, and he looked at her for a long time and then shook his head, looking away.

 

“I already know what I must say—yet I wonder if I have the courage to say it.” The words were so low and desolate that Tauriel reached out a hand to comfort him. But he flinched away from her touch, incomprehensibly, and walked away.

 

Thranduil spoke little at the dinner, and Tauriel, conscious even as she was of Legolas’ eyes on her, could not stop looking anxiously at him. But Legolas was the reverse of his father, eyes bright, telling incredible stories that seemed to traverse the whole of Middle-Earth. Thranduil listened to these with intent focus, and even Tauriel forgot her worry for a while in favor of fascination when she had heard him describe the Glittering Caves, and the wonders of Lothlorien, and the strange faded beauty of Gondor.

 

“What an incredible journey you have had,” she said, unable to hide her enthusiasm. He had come to an end, although she suspected the story was not at all complete; he had used that incredible word, _friend_ , to describe a dwarf, but before his father he spoke nothing more of Gimli, son of Gloin, save as a member of their company. There was more there. But that could all wait.

 

“Yes, and a long one.” Legolas turned his wine glass around and then around again, chasing it around with his fingers. “I am sorry not to have been home, with all the ruin and sorrow you have had to face.”

 

Tauriel had opened her mouth to ask more questions; she shut it now with a faint snap. She could not think how to answer this. She was sorry too, at that, and she felt keenly the exact toll of that ruin and sorrow.

 

More keenly, it occurred to her suddenly, than Legolas possibly could. He had not been here to see the life run out of their friends’ faces. He had not seen Mirkwood burning. If he had suffered such regrets as he claimed to, he might have come home, rather than continue to flee.

 

The resentful thought shocked her—but having thought it, she suddenly could not stop the flow. They had both gone to Erebor and suffered heartbreak there. But she had returned, hadn’t she? She had come home into the teeth of whispers and ridicule—and he had gone away. He had not been there when they needed him. And now— _now_ , when all the fires had burned themselves out and all the blood had been washed into the soil—he was finally here. He was home, but he was not the same. The thought bubbled up in her: _I missed him so badly, and for so long, and all he can do is tell stories of his adventures_.

 

“Tauriel?” he asked, tentatively, at her silence. She set down her knife and fork with a clatter and fled from the table. She heard a chair overturn, behind her, and low murmur that could only have been Thranduil. Neither of them followed her.

 

It was a long way through the palace, still thronged with many of the people who had sought refuge here during the war, and had not yet returned home. They made way for her in the hallways, smiling shyly and nodding their heads at her, but the gesture only made her feel more distant and strange. If she was at Thranduil’s side, perhaps, it would have made better sense, but it was only her, Tauriel, a captain of the guard, walking by herself. Yet still they held themselves back from her, as if in deference or awe.

 

There was no relief to be found when she turned the corner and found herself in the guards’ quarters. Behind her the bustle and flow of traffic continued, but the hallways before her were utterly empty. She felt that hollowness in her gut; she took a step down the hallway and her boots echoed. Her hand came up and traced along the stone walls as she walked, feeling every ridge and bump that had been smoothed by all the hands that had come before her, for hundreds of years. She knew the way by heart; the door to her private room swung open before her. Slowly she crossed the floor and laid herself down on the bed. Everything was exactly as it had been before the war.

 

If she let herself pretend, she could almost call up the sound of her guards gaming and laughing in the other room. She might have joined them, entering the conversation with some joke or wager. None of them would have stood aside for her in the hallway, pretending that she was someone grander than she was. But they were all gone now. There was no low ebb of voices coming from down the hallway, no matter how hard she tried to fool herself.

 

Wetness leaked out from between her tightly closed eyelids. While her pillow grew silently more sodden, Tauriel curled into herself on the narrow cot. A narrow, childish terror kept her awake: the fear of what she might see in her dreams. The deaths of her friends. The burning of Mirkwood. Thranduil’s face, twisted in pain…

 

At last exhaustion claimed her. The gods were kind: she dreamed of nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Listlessly she heard Legolas approach from behind her, the sound of his footsteps familiar even after so many years. Tauriel did not move. Here on the lee side of the palace, some of the fruit trees in the garden had been spared from the fire. They were in full flower now, eager to ripen into fruit. She stared up into their twisting branches, wishing for their uncomplicated peace. Legolas waited by her stone bench, but when the invitation did not come he sat by her anyway. After a moment, to Tauriel’s simmering discontent, he began to speak.

 

“I used to climb these very trees,” he said to her, as if only recounting a favorite memory to an old friend. “Years ago, when I was not yet grown. I could gorge upon the fruit for hours. And then, of course, I would be sick afterwards and miss my dinner. I could never guess if my father hadn’t known of it, or if he simply thought my being ill was enough of its own punishment.”

 

With an effort, Tauriel stirred herself. “Which one was it?”

 

Legolas started, apparently in the middle of a reverie. “What?”

 

“Which one was it?” Tauriel asked again, annoyed at having to repeat herself. “Did he know or not?”

 

“Well—I never asked,” he answered cautiously. “It never occurred to me to.”

 

“Then you cannot complain of not knowing.” She didn’t care if she sounded short or not. Why was he here?

 

“I wasn’t,” said Legolas, beginning to sound annoyed. “I—” He broke off and instead gave a short, rueful laugh. “You never used to argue with me this much.”

 

“I’m not who I used to be.”

 

“Yes. I knew that the moment I saw you.”

 

His voice was soft, despite everything, low and more than a little moonstruck.  The sound of it curdled inside her.

 

“Does that disappoint you?” she asked, the words coming slowly out of her mouth. “Did you think I was going to wait here, unchanged, while you ran off with your Ranger? Or that the rest of us would?” She felt her fury break into her face as she looked at Legolas for the first time. “You never said a word!” she cried. “You left and never said goodbye, and I was left to face the scorn and the blame. And—the guilt.”

 

Legolas blinked at her openmouthed. Tauriel charged into his silence.

 

“I had just lost Kili, Legolas. How did you think I could bear losing you, too? Did you consider that, or did you only consult your own pride?”

 

“—No,” he said, after a pause. “I did not think of that. I thought—I never thought you would want to see me again.”

 

It was Tauriel’s turn to be silent, taken aback by the honesty. “How could you think that?” she asked after a moment. “With everything we had been through together?”

 

“You’ve been through much more without me.” There was a note of bitterness in his voice, his shoulders hunched.

 

“Yes,” she said, low. “But only because you left.” She got up and paced, a relentless energy driving her and making her steps jerky. She could feel his eyes on her. Abruptly she stopped. “Dolorian is dead.”

 

She heard him take a sharp indrawn breath. “Who else has died?”

 

“You would do better to ask who is still alive,” said Tauriel, without much emotion. “Elanor, Andir, Fêron, Brúnthel.” She named perhaps five others, a short list. There was a kind of blankness in his face when she finally turned to look at him.

 

“Is that all?” His hands clenched. “How can that be all?”

 

“Elanor and I were the only ones to survive the fire. The rest of them were those too wounded to make the trek north with me. Many of those died, even with all the healers could do.” Her voice was too calm for how she felt. She had meant to throw the names of the dead at him like sand into his eyes, to spite him, but in the end she could not do it. There was no need to. Legolas shuddered as if struck.

 

“That must be why I came so far through the forest without receiving a challenge,” he said to himself, and then shook his head, once, sharply. “You were right. I never imagined that so much could be so different. I thought perhaps I would return to a home that was unchanged, and that by consequence I, too, could be unchanged from who I was. But there was war here as everywhere, wasn’t there?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“A war you won, if my father tells me the story correct.”

 

“And what has he told you?”

 

“Everything. He told me what you did. The ride into the mountain pass. The fire. And then—”

 

Involuntarily, her fingers went to the scar of her throat. “Yes. I did all that.”

 

“You should be given a hero’s feast! My father should have had his generals kneel before you.”

 

Tauriel remembered Dulindir; remembered the look in his eyes when he tasted lembas bread again. The thought was a real agony.

 

“No. Never. I have no desire to be lauded for doing what I had done. Not even for a moment. I am sick of reminders. I am sick of war.” For a moment it was as if the scent of fire still lingered in her nostrils. Her shoulders clenched. “I never wish to take another life. I—”

 

“You want to plant something and watch it grow.”

 

Tauriel started. It was as if Legolas had taken the words from her lips. Slowly, he met her eyes. “Would you believe that I want that too?”

 

Whatever he saw in Tauriel’s startled gaze made him look away again. He put the fingers of his hands together and spoke to them.

 

“Last night, what I said—I did not lie to you,” he said in a desperate rush. “Those things truly did happen. The beauty of Lothlorien, and the gifts we received there, that was no fiction. Nor was any of the rest of it. Yet it is wrong to take the sorrow out of a story, and there has been—a great deal of sorrow.” After a moment he continued.

 

“The first one of our friends we lost in Moria. The mountain had been reconquered by goblins and foul things, the dwarf-lords long dead and rotted.”

 

Tauriel let out a low involuntary moan, collapsing down next to him on the bench, her legs gone out. “Balin,” she gasped. “He was meant to be lord there.”

 

Legolas looked up at her helplessly. “I am sorry,” he said. “We found his tomb, down in the dark.”

 

“It was me. It was my fault. I begged Thranduil to give them passage through Mirkwood. I-I thought I was doing them a boon.” Legolas’s hesitant silence answered her. She bowed her head. “Tell me,” she said.

 

“They unleashed a balrog,” he said reluctantly.

 

Tauriel shut her eyes tightly. “And you faced such a thing?”

 

“No. We could only run from its footsteps as they echoed in the depths. We fled, while one of our own perished to hold it at bay. Mithrandir was the first to die in our journey, but the only one to return from death. Many more died. I saw a good man corrupted by the ring of power. I saw old men and boys die to hold a hopeless position; aye, and elves as well. And I held it also; stood my place among them beyond hope and beyond reason.”

 

“There was no hope or reason in this war,” Tauriel said. Her voice was hoarse. “It came on senselessly and took everything it could take.”

 

“Yet still—”

 

“—we fought,” she finished. “I know.”

 

“There’s one thing more,” said Legolas. “Gimli. I never thought a dwarf could be a friend. I was wrong.”

 

“Legolas—” she began, and could not go on.

 

“I understand too late now what you could have shared with Kili. I denied it from you. I denied it to myself. Even in my exile I could not comprehend it. Yet what I have now with Gimli, I can only claim to have taken from your example. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, and I would pay it back, if I could.

 

“Mordor is fallen,” he continued, into her silence. “The glory of Gondor has been restored. The lands that had been under the shadow need hands to tend them and bring about new growth. Ithilien is a fine place, or it was, and the beauty that was there remains, and will come back again.

 

“And that is where I need to be.”

 

That brought her head up sharp. “You are not staying in Mirkwood?” She felt, of all things, betrayed. “Did you come here just to say goodbye to me?”

 

“No, Tauriel, never,” said Legolas, the words tripping over themselves in his rush to get them out. “I want you to come with me.”

 

Tauriel stared. She could not remember the last time she had been so shocked.

 

“Legolas,” she said awkwardly. “The king and I…”

 

“I know,” said Legolas, so earnestly that it hurt her heart. “That you sought comfort where it was offered to you is no matter to me. The years are long, Tauriel—and I have done the same. I am not the same princeling that I was so long ago. I have seen much of the world now, and it is strange. There are many things that pass under the stars. Love is only one of them.” His eyes looked into hers. _How like and yet unlike his father he was_ , thought Tauriel. “We were friends once, Tauriel, great friends. And all that time I was waiting for you to realize that you were in love with me. I was wrong to do that, as I was wrong to leave your side when you needed me. I thought—many foolish things—but I ask you for nothing now. Nothing, but a new beginning. To be what we once were.”

 

His hands were warm as they wrapped around her fingers. “Come with me,” he said, his voice ringing distantly in her ears. “Come with me to Ithilien.”

 

She could give no answer. Watching them from a high window, frozen still as if carved out of porcelain, was Thranduil.

 

* * *

 

 

At last she climbed the stairs to the solarium. She had run out of places to search; he had not been in the chamber where she had seen him through the window. The staircase felt absurdly long, each step dragging at her feet, but at last she gained the top and threw open the doors.

 

She had known that Thranduil would be there, had hoped—there was almost nowhere else he could have been, that she had not already looked. Yet still she froze to see him there before the vast windows, lit by the ferocious strength of the afternoon sun. He threw a long shadow back across the room, his broad shoulders narrowing across the patterned floor, and the points of his crown coming to rest at her feet. She skirted around it as she came to his side. Sunlight loved him as ever much as starlight did. His lids, half-hooded against the steady golden light, hid his expression.

 

“Thranduil?”

 

“I think I have done you a great wrong,” he said. “I have been viciously selfish, and been rewarded with your loyalty. It is not what you are owed.”

 

“Excuse me?” she asked, blankly. “Thranduil, I do not understand your meaning, not at all, but you must already know that I have no intention of going with Legolas.”

 

“So he did ask you, then,” said Thranduil after a moment. “I thought he might.”

 

“Yes,” said Tauriel, growing angry now, “but of course I could never leave Mirkwood. Why are you acting so strangely?”

 

His jaw tightened. “I cannot bear your assurances,” he said. “Not when they are so badly misplaced. I only wish I could be glad for your loyalty. I must hold you back no longer—”

 

“Then—then, do you want me to go?” A terrible understanding was dawning, her voice and her fears rising with it, but it was too late. Thranduil was already deadly calm, composed, speaking to her as if she were some stranger.

 

“You will never love me as I love you, Tauriel. No,” he said. “I have always known that. I have been content with the warmth of your affection. But I will not be a weight around your soul. You should be free, Tauriel, to be with whom you love.”

 

Her hands began to tremble. “Thranduil, what are you saying?”

 

“You love my son,” he said, looking away, “and my son loves you. It is a fitting match. You are both young and brave. You should inherit the world while you still can.”

 

Tauriel was shaking her head. “No,” she said, unable to say anything more. The world had somehow gone terribly wrong. “No, no, no—”

 

He was still avoiding her eyes. “I will go to Valinor,” Thranduil said calmly, as if he was not killing her with the words.

 

“You cannot!” she cried.

 

“Why can I not?” he asked, still with that terrible calm. It burst free of her then.

 

“I love you,” said Tauriel.

 

There it was, out in the open between them. She’d had no idea how heavy the words really were until they were out, leaving her strangely hollow and light, as if she might fly away at any moment. She felt terrifyingly umoored, and more so when Thranduil whirled to face her at last. His eyes were wild and in them, she saw the lie of his serenity. And then his mask came down.

 

“It is kind of you to lie for me,” he said, once more an elf-king.

 

“A lie?” said Tauriel. “When have I ever told a lie, for you or for anyone? The only one I have ever lied to is—myself. I love you, Thranduil. You know that it’s true.”

 

His fingers quivered. “You have never…”

 

“I know,” she said. She looked away from him.  “I am so sorry. I-I was so blind, for so long, and—and I was afraid.” She choked on the words. Thranduil was silent as she mastered herself, a painfully long time.

 

“Do not go to Valinor,” she said to the ground. “I am only a Sylvan elf, Thranduil. I have never heard the call of the sea. It is not in me to go West, not until Mandos summons me. Only then will I leave these forests, these green shadows…Please, do not go where I cannot follow.” She wiped something away from her eye. There was silence in the sun-drenched room.

 

“I will not go to Valinor,” he said finally, in a low voice. Tauriel kept her eyes fixed to the floor, not daring to hope. “On one condition.”

 

“Thranduil,” she whispered. His hand brought her chin up. She stared into fiercely blue eyes, alive with light.

 

“Marry me, Tauriel,” he said, his voice breaking. “Be mine at last.”

 

His face blurred and splintered in her vision, as if she were seeing him through ice, or the finest quartz, light at every angle surrounding him with radiance. It took her a moment to realize that she was crying, and that she was looking at him through her tears. Her mouth opened, but she could not say a word, not with her heart hammering in her throat. If she agreed now, she would never again be able to slip into a crowd unnoticed, or run into the trees and disappear. She could not again call herself a mere captain of the guard.

 

She blinked, tears releasing and her vision clearing enough to see that it had been long enough without a sound that despair had come into his eyes again.

 

 _Enough of this_ , she thought.

 

“Yes,” she said. Her hands came up and framed his face, fingertips resting shivering on his cheeks and eyelids. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

They were deep within the wood now, out where streaming pillars of sunlight made great halls out of the vast spaces between the oaks. Motes of pollen came drifting down to where Tauriel and Thranduil stood, clad in green and gold like the canopy above them, their hands intertwined. They were crowned with the leaves and trailing catkins of the flowering oak.

 

In the sunlit grove they were surrounded by song, elven voices blending in supple harmony, but they may as well have been alone. Thranduil spoke first.

 

“I take Tauriel, whom I love, to be my queen and my wife,” he said, his low voice resonating within her bones. “I pledge her my troth for this day, and all days to come, until the world ends, and after.”

 

From either side of them came Legolas and Elanor, each carrying a pot of gold and silver paint. The glistening leaf went across their joined hands, forming phrases of love and fortune that had been ancient when they had been passed down to the elves of Mirkwood. The words scrolled across their fingers in glittering rows.

 

Her voice was as steady as she could make it as she spoke in turn:

 

“I take Thranduil as my king and husband,” said Tauriel, not looking away from his eyes. “I pledge him my troth and my love past the fading of time and memory. This I swear—”

 

“This I swear.”

 

By those words was it finished. The wind kicked up suddenly as they kissed, their hair swirling up from beneath their crowns like rising flames, and all the green leaves in the trees murmuring back at them. It did not drown out the noise and joy that erupted from around them; all of Greenwood had come to see their king wed again at last.

 

The paint was dry on their hands when they parted. With their hands apart, the words faded into gibberish, gold and silver designs devoid of half their meaning. Their intricate whorls and lines flashed in the sun like jewelry, or clear running water, but only when she and Thranduil brought their hands together would they again form words. Together they turned to receive the crowds, for the first time, as the king and queen of Greenwood.

 

Their people knelt before them, sinking down into the loamy forest litter. Thranduil smiled, his eyes warm, and then seemed to stifle a gesture of his hand, instead looking over curiously at Tauriel. Without expecting it, she found that she knew what she wanted to do.

 

“Rise,” she called to the crowd. “Rise and celebrate with us, my friends!”

 

They sprang to their feet, shouting and singing. A few elves danced now through the crowd, trailing flower petals and the pure chimes of the little golden bells around their ankles. Their hands irresistibly pulled the unsuspecting into the dance with them; in time most of the crowd would be consumed into an unbroken, twisting chain of hands. Tauriel and Thranduil walked together through the milleu, greeting subjects and guests alike.

 

The king of Dale had come, with his wife; his face was achingly familiar, yet he spoke to her like a wary stranger. There was something ghostly in it, to call him _Bard_ , yet have him know nothing of her but a faint family history. Thranduil was stiff to him, uncomfortable and restless to move on, yet Tauriel forestalled him with a hand on his arm.

 

“I knew your great-grandsire,” she said to the human king. “He was a good man. I even liked to think that we were friends.”

 

There was more than a little of Bard, their Bard, in the answer of his flickering smile, and the sudden depth of warmth in his brown eyes. “I am sure he liked the thought as well, majesty.”

 

“I would have us strike that friendship anew,” said Tauriel. “What do you say to that?”

 

The smile widened into the grin she remembered so well. “Nothing would please me more. Our family had not forgotten the debt we owe you. To you both,” he said, turning to Thranduil, who looked wary to be addressed. Tauriel nudged his hand as a reminder, but Thranduil was already inquiring stiltedly after Dale’s reconstructions, and was receiving in return Bard’s eager invitation to visit.

 

It was awkward to speak with a mortal wearing a dead man’s face. She felt almost as if Bard would suddenly laugh, dropping the façade, and remind them of the battle they had all won together many years ago. Yet for all that, it was a beginning, and Thranduil now showed no signs to wanting to flee. Tauriel squeezed his hand once more for luck and slipped away. Just across the glade, Legolas was leaning against a young tree, looking at someone she could not quite pick out.

 

The two of them had talked, a little, in that same garden where he had once climbed fruit trees. He had been silent for a long time when she told him of the wedding.

 

“Are you—angry?” she had asked at last, unable to think of anything else to say.

 

“Angry? No, how could I be? I love you, Tauriel.” The words rushed out of him helplessly; he looked alarmed to have let them slip. After a moment he went on. “And I love my father. If you have both found happiness, I can only be happy with you.”

 

“Only one thing could complete my happiness. Stay here,” she said, clasping at his arm. “Here where we love you. Why would you go?”

 

“Ithilien needs healing,” said Legolas, evasive, not looking at her.

 

“So does Mirkwood. So why—”

 

“I do not think I could bear it,” he said suddenly. “Looking at the people and places I love the most, every day, and knowing that someday soon I would have to leave them. I—Tauriel, I have heard the cry of the white gull. I have heard the voice of the western sea.” His face was anguish itself. “I feel its pull even now. I am not destined to stay much longer in Middle-Earth, among these trees that I love.”

 

Tauriel was silent before this confession. The parting of death could not have been more irreparable.

 

“But,” she began, hesitant, “will you stay for the wedding, at least?”

 

His smile was as brilliant as the stars, bright with joy and love.

 

“Nothing could give me greater happiness,” he had said. “Of course I will.”

 

That same light was still in his smile now as he looked up from his conversation and saw her. His companion, she saw now, was a dwarf; the only one who had come. The curiosity in his crinkled dark eyes was equal to her own.

 

“Gimli,” said Legolas. Nerve and excitement running in equal currents through his voice. “I would like you to meet someone. This is Tauriel, now queen of these woodlands, and one of my dearest friends. Tauriel, this is Gimli, son of Gloin, who was part of the band that retook Erebor.”

 

“I believe I once briefly met your father,” she said, smiling at him. “I am honored that you should have come.”

 

“Honored to be here, I’m sure.” He leaned towards Legolas and raised a hand over his mouth, not very discreetly. “So this is your wee elf lassie, is she? A right pretty one she is, too,” said Gimli, in a perfectly audible whisper.

 

“Only mind you do not ask for a strand of her hair,” said Legolas, his mouth quirking up at the end.

 

“Well! As if I would dare, with your lord father glowering like that—” Tauriel swallowed a rueful sigh as he went on. “—Although I wouldn’t mind some to light my fire if I was out, hah!”

 

He was, for all of Thranduil’s glares, a good-natured guest. Tauriel was glad to have him, and more to the point, he made Legolas happy. A shadow that she had not noticed before had lifted from his eyes as they spoke, and Tauriel walked away from them feeling considerably lighter in her heart.

 

With the guests spoken to, old friends reunited and the wine in free flow, Tauriel and Thranduil once more found themselves alone. When Tauriel felt his warm hand slip around hers, she followed it eagerly into the shadows.

 

They made their way together through the trees, not speaking, their hands wrapped tightly around each other. The woods grew dark around them. They walked until the music and shouting of the revelry behind them faded into the nightsounds of the forest. The river roared in the distance; nearer to them, animals snuffled through the underbrush, innocent to their presence. Tauriel pulled at Thranduil’s hand, and together they laid themselves down in the soft, sweet-smelling soil.

 

“You’re smiling,” she said.

 

“Am I?” His fingers came up to her face, trailing over the curve of her mouth. “So are you.”

 

She kissed his fingers, nibbling on them playfully. “I can’t imagine why,” she said. “Did something especially amusing happen today?”

 

Thranduil growled, his arm reaching out lazily and pulling her closer. There was no space between their bodies. She could feel his heartbeat thrumming beneath his skin, a mirror of her own.

 

“Are you always going to be like this?” he asked. A warm undercurrent ran beneath the words.

 

She put her lips to his cheek, making sure that he could feel her smile widen. “Yes. I promise.”

 

“Good,” he whispered back, and kissed her.

 

The world fell away as she kissed him back. She was still smiling as she pulled away. Thranduil followed after her, nuzzling.

 

“I love you,” he whispered into her skin. She held onto him tightly, buried her hands in his hair.

 

“And I love you.”

 

Nothing more needed to be said. Tauriel breathed deep of him. He smelled of sword oil and new growth after fire and all the things that she loved. They stayed there together for a long time, letting the night deepen around them. After all, they had forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wonderful ride. Thank you for being a part of it. I'm aware that I could not wrap up all the loose ends, so I will try to answer any questions you have in the comments.
> 
> The end.


End file.
